Classic Rock and Stardust
by ImpalaLove
Summary: Season 3 AU-ish. A re-imagining of Dean's year after selling his soul. "We are all peculiar, unrepeatable, perambulating micro-universes- we have never been before and we will never be again." Sam's POV.
1. Chapter 1

**Season 3 AUish-Probably takes place sometime after Long Distance Call but I've changed the story from there. This isn't so much an AU as it is a 'reimagining' of sorts. I'm not sure why, because I've already thrown out a few stories regarding season 3 and Dean's deal, but this one just wouldn't let me go until I got it all out. So here you go. It'll be divided into several chapters, so look for updates every few days or so!**

 **Sam's POV.**

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Classic Rock and Stardust 

The sky is the clearest I've seen it in a long time. The air was a little too cold for my taste earlier this morning, the last dregs of February still making themselves known despite the fact that it's mid-March by now. But as the stars claim the sky, they seem to be projecting some of their own warmth, enough that I'm now content to hang my arm out the open window of the Impala as we cruise down the empty road, going just a little too fast, as usual. Dean sits beside me, his left arm mirroring mine, dangling out the window. His fingers dance in the breeze, catching air in the spaces between them, his arm drifting up and down, up and down, like he's riding some invisible ocean wave.

I close my eyes and lean my head back against the passenger seat, letting out a small sigh. For once it's not just exhaustion, but also a little satisfaction that has the air whistling out of me. Dean tilts his head in my direction and smiles: he can tell the difference.

It's been a long couple of weeks, but they've brought some much-needed success. We're currently heading back from a poltergeist hunt on the outskirts of Pocatello, but before that had been a vampire nest in Deadwood, South Dakota (appropriately named, in Dean's opinion), a skinwalker back in Kansas, several demons in need of exorcising, and a particularly enraged water spirit in Colorado that had left us both more than a little waterlogged, not to mention freezing. I'd been worried about losing a few toes to frostbite on that one. We'd stopped by Bobby's for a comfortable night's sleep after the vampires had been dispatched, but besides that, we've been running nonstop. Ever since Dean admitted to making that deal, he's been a jumbled ball of energy and adrenaline that can't be quelled. He's had us moving from one hunt to the next, and I have no idea how he finds them so fast. If I wasn't so busy killing things lately, I might have the sense to worry about it.

Maybe that's the idea.

But obviously, there's no way I've forgotten about any of it. The imminent threat of Dean's death hangs over me like a brewing storm, dark and ever-present. It's been inching closer, and I've been working nonstop to get him out of it; spending any spare minute I have making calls, delving into lore books, and searching for a spell, a ritual, a cursed object- anything that might save Dean's life. I'm always thinking about it.

But right now, at this exact moment, things are good. We're both right where we're supposed to be: asphalt beneath the tires of the Impala, some Bob Seger on the radio, and a cloudless night sky.

Dean pulls over less than ten minutes later and kills the engine. I turn to face him, eyebrows raised, waiting. He sits there for a moment longer, hands resting on the steering wheel before he turns to look at me.

"What?" I ask, his expression unreadable and somewhere far away.

"I don't know," he says, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You think it's warm enough to sit for a bit?"

I smile and nod, immediately understanding. "Yeah it's kind of perfect tonight, actually." I slide out of the passenger seat and make my way over to sit on the hood of the car. Dean joins me a second later, scooting himself next to me and dropping a six-pack between us. It's been a long time since we've done this, just sat for a while and looked up at the stars, but it's something we've been doing since the time we were little. Every once in a while, Dad used to get this look in his eyes, like the one Dean has now, and he'd pull over on the side of the road somewhere and he'd turn to us and he'd say: "Stars are out."

That was always our cue. The three of us would clamber out of the car and sit on the hood for a while and just look. Just _be_ for a minute.

"You see that?" John Winchester would say, leaning back against the windshield, his eyes twinkling. "That's something, innit boys? That's really _something_."

At the time, I hadn't really understood the ritual, had often complained that it was too cold to be sitting outside for that long, that I was bored, but Dean always shut me up. And as the years went on, I began to appreciate it more. There was something about sitting there, the three of barely saying anything. It was special, private- therapeutic even. There was nothing but us. My favorite part about it was that for those few moments, Dad was just _Dad_. And then even after he died, the tradition never lost its appeal. If anything, it became even more meaningful.

"Little dipper!" Dean exclaims suddenly, pulling me back to the present. He's jabbing a finger up at the sparkling expanse above us, positioning it carefully so I find what he's looking at.

"Yep, I see it," I say when I locate the familiar formation of seven stars. It's usually hard to see all seven, but we're far from any city lights, so they glint like crystals set against the black. I crack my beer open. Dean's already halfway done with his. We sit for a while longer, just watching the night roll by. It's good to finally stop moving, and I'm relieved Dean's restlessness has settled a little, at least for tonight.

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Ooooooooooo00000000oooooooooooooooO

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"You ever hear that thing people say, about how we're all made of stardust?" I ask after a long time. It's the first words either of us have spoken in a while, and I'm not really sure where they come from. I'd been thinking about it for a little while now, probably because I'd read something in the paper recently while skimming for yet another case. There'd been this little opinion piece that had caught my eye because of the headline: _"Heaven or Hell-bound?"_ It described people as _'cocktails created by the grains of an infinite universe,'_ or something like that. I'd been intrigued by it for some reason; the idea that we are all never-ending, that we exist inside a universe that reshapes and reforms, but never erases. It sounds silly now, when I say it out loud, so I'm surprised when Dean doesn't laugh. It's exactly the kind of fuel he usually jumps all over in his attempts to fulfill his role as annoying older brother. But tonight, he doesn't say anything. I turn to watch his expression, but his face is mostly shadowed and he's staring straight ahead, watching the skyline.

"It's a nice thought, Sammy," Dean says finally.

"You don't believe it?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. Like I said, it's a nice thought, but in reality, we're all just skin and bone and muscle. So I guess we _are_ all made of the same things, if you wanna think about it that way. But those things are…" Dean stops talking, his eyes still on the place where trees meet sky, directly in front of us.

"Are what, Dean?" I ask.

My big brother smiles, but it's tinged with a sadness he rarely lets me see. Suddenly, I know he's been thinking about Dad tonight, same as I have. It's impossible not to. Dean takes one last swig of his third beer and slides easily off of the hood, tossing the empty bottle over my head and into the tall grass that surrounds us, smirking slightly when I flinch at how close it comes to hitting the side of my head. I narrow my eyes at him. He ignores me, puts a hand on the driver's side of the Impala and twists his torso back and forth, working out the kinks from sitting for so long. He's still got that faraway look in his eyes.

"Breakable," Dean says simply.

I watch him climb back into the car, the door singing its familiar tune as he slams it shut behind him, and he immediately begins drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. He's ready to be moving again. I sigh heavily and make my way back to my side of the Impala, tossing my one remaining beer into the backseat. Dean makes a face but doesn't say anything about it.

"Motel?" he asks instead. "We're not far from the next town."

"Okay," I agree, sliding my own door shut as Dean peels the Impala back onto the road.

The stars still gleam above us, but they don't seem quite as enchanting anymore.

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 **The quote about the universe that Sam talks about here (and a big part in inspiring this story) is by a columnist named Caitlin Moran. It's a little long to post the entirety of it here, but if you google the words "At 19, I read a sentence that re-terraformed my head: 'The level of matter in the universe has been constant since the big bang.' In all the aeons we have lost nothing, we have gained nothing- not a speck, not a grain, not a breath," you should be able to find it. The rest of it is just as gorgeous.**

 **Thanks for reading and let me know what you thought if you have time!**


	2. Chapter 2

**I'm a day late on this and I'm sorry about that! Haven't been home in a few days (but not on a hunting trip, don't worry). Anyways, enjoy! Sam POV.**

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I wake abruptly, as is usually the case nowadays. Dean's lying in the bed next to mine, and I can tell he's been awake, maybe for a while, but he tries to act like he's just coming back to consciousness at the same time I am. He rubs a hand down his face and sits up slowly, grinning sleepily at me.

"Morning, sunshine…or should I say stardust?" Dean fakes a yawn and waggles his eyebrows at me. I wonder how long he's been staring at the ceiling. Awake. Just waiting.

"Morning," I reply, choosing not to take the bait. Instead, I throw the bed sheets aside and shuffle toward the bathroom.

"Breakfast?" Dean calls after me.

"Yeah sure, gimme ten."

Not long after, we're slumped across from each other in one of the comfiest booths I've ever sat in, which is saying something when you think about how many random restaurants and diners and bars we've been to in our lifetime. This diner is small in a cozy, non-intrusive way, painted sky blue and offset by cream-colored tables and chairs. It's supposed to be like sitting on a cloud, I guess. And they came pretty close. If only motel beds were so forgiving. I roll out my neck.

"Found us a job," Dean says after our order has been taken by a blushing girl named Patty who blushes hard and falls victim to the charms of my big brother as soon as we order, though this one's far too young. I was about to poke some fun and comment on it, but Dean's words stop me.

"What the hell? Already?" I snap, shaking my head. My theory about him having been awake for a while this morning has been proven correct. "It's literally been less than twenty-four hours, and you found us _another_ one?"

Dean's brow furrows and he tilts his head toward me in confusion. "Yeah, Sam," he replies. "Is that a problem? You got other plans or something? A hot date I don't know about?"

"No," I growl, rolling my eyes in annoyance. "Look, I just think…we've been running nonstop. Just seems like we should be spending a little more time worrying about the most pressing issue here"

"Most pressing issue?" Dean honestly sounds confused. It's infuriating.

"Yeah, Dean," I bark, "How about the fact that your year's almost up? I mean we've got what? Less than a month left?"

"Thirteen days," Dean recites automatically, and then freezes, as if he hadn't meant to say it out loud.

I freeze too. Thirteen. Thirteen? It hadn't seemed that close. That soon. Thirteen. What the hell happened to all of our time?

"Sam? You okay?" Dean asks, reaching across the booth to grab onto my forearm. I'm breathing hard, on the cusp of hyperventilating, my eyes dancing around the room as I try to process. Thirteen. Thirteen fucking days.

"I'm...fine," I say after a minute. "I just…we can't take that case Dean. Whatever it is, we can't take it."

"Sam…"

"No," I say, shoving Dean's arm away. I've raised my voice loud enough that a few of the other patrons in the diner have stopped to look at us, Patty included. I hadn't heard her advance, but suddenly she's setting our food in front of us, a concerned frown gracing her features before she replaces it with an easy smile.

"Enjoy!" she chirps, just a little too loudly. Her eyes linger on Dean for an extra second and he winks at her, trying to dispel some tension. It works (of course it works). Patty giggles and spins back toward the kitchen, hips swaying with just a little too much purpose as she pushes the door aside and disappears through it. Dean watches her go, glancing back at me before quickly dropping his eyes down to the pancakes in front of him. He drowns them in syrup and starts to dig in, though I can tell he's watching me out of the corner of his eye. So I do what I know he wants me to do, and I start eating too.

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Ooooooooooooo00000ooooooooooooooooO

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"It's not that far," he says when he's down to his last of five pancakes. Dean's appetite has been insatiable lately.

"Huh?" I ask around a mouthful of scrambled egg. I'd been drifting a little as I ate, thinking about those thirteen days. We needed to call Bobby, that was for sure. Probably hole up with him in South Dakota for a while, see what all of us could dig up together. There had to be _something_ that could help Dean in one of those old books of his _._ Anything.

"The job. It's just a few hours away," Dean pushes. "We can finish it off real quick and then head over to Bobby's if you want. Sort all this out. Try to figure out our…options or whatever."

He says the last part like he's not sure we'll have any options. Like we're back in a hospital room and Dean's looking up at me with a barely-pumping heart and he's saying _"Options? What options? You got burial or cremation."_

"Dean, come on," I push back. "You've got thirteen fucking days left, and you wanna go running off to another random town for another random monster? I mean…"

"People are dying, Sam," Dean interrupts, his mouth set in a grim line. He holds his fork like a weapon, fist grasped tight around the handle as it dangles in the air just above his plate. Dean is graceful in many things, maybe more graceful than he wants to be, but eating is not one of those things. When there is food in front of him, it seems that natural tact is somewhat lost. Sometimes he seems more lethal when I'm trying to separate him from his last piece of bacon than when he's trying to separate a vampire's head from its shoulders.

"Yeah, they are," I snap. "And I'm trying to save one of them."

Dean shakes his head and pushes his plate aside, fork clattering shrilly against it. He's still got almost an entire pancake left, which is completely uncharacteristic. As if on cue, Patty chooses that exact moment to reappear, a smile still plastered on thin lips. The diner isn't very crowded, and I wonder absently if she's been watching us eat, waiting for the chance to talk to Dean again.

"All done here?" she asks, all bright eyes and glistening smile.

Dean's too busy glaring at me to give more than a cursory nod and a "just the check please," doesn't see the way her face falls slightly as she collects our plates and shuffles away again.

Dean reignites his argument the moment she's gone. "It's not like we've got an hour left or something, Sam," he says. "Thirteen days is plenty of time. Hell, ten days is still plenty of time. And I doubt this case'll even take that long. I'm already pretty sure it's an angry spirit. Point is, bodies are dropping, and we can do something about it. So I don't care what you decide, but _I'm_ going."

With that, Dean stands up, shoving a few crumpled bills into Patty's hands as she reemerges with the check.

"Keep the change, sweetheart," he says, leaving her with a smile that doesn't quite touch his eyes. Patty seems a bit put off, and I shoot her an apologetic look as I slide out of the booth and head for the door after Dean. Our beautiful sky from the night before seems to have clouded up fairly quickly, and I feel the first drops of rain splatter against my jacket as I make my way to the Impala. Dean's waiting for me with the engine already running, and he looks at me expectantly as I slide in next to him.

"Alright," I grunt, giving in. I have no doubt he'll hunt this one on his own if I refuse to go with him. "Where we headed?"

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 **Thanks for reading, see you next Thursday!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Nothing to say, just enjoy!**

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Despite the rain, we make it to Hagerman, Idaho in a little over two hours and pull into a nearby motel. I've got the laptop set up almost immediately, trying to figure out what we're dealing with. The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can move on to saving my brother's life. Said brother doesn't seem to be quite as worried about efficiency as I am. Dean takes his sweet time grabbing his duffle and trudging into the room, and an even longer time showering. By the time he's dressed and sprawled out on the bed next to mine, I've dredged up all I can find on his so-called angry spirit.

"I'm just not sure that's what this is," I say as Dean runs a towel through his still-damp hair. He breathes in deeply, his words coming out on the exhale.

"And why is that?" he asks.

"Dean, did you read the autopsy reports? It's all too messy. I mean sure, you've got witnesses saying they've seen some 'ghostly' woman running around town, but these bodies have been seriously mangled. Angry spirits aren't exactly known for that."

Dean shrugs. "Yeah but it's a small town, and suddenly, just when some random lady starts walking around, people start dying?" He sees my expression and rolls his eyes. "Okay. So then what's _your_ theory, college boy?"

I lean back in my chair and rub a hand along my neck, stretching out my body. For all the hunting we do, I imagine I still probably have to worry about bending over a laptop screen for a little too long sometimes. Especially lately, when the distance between slightly anxious research and dangerously obsessive desperation is just a slight tilt to the left, influenced by a single grain of possibility. So far though, those little 'possibilities' have just turned into more nothing.

"Not sure," I say in reply to Dean's question. Again, I am in no mood to refute his sarcasm. "Cycle's wrong for it to be a werewolf, but my money's on something with fangs. I say one of us checks in with the police while the other interviews some witnesses?"

"Sounds good to me," Dean agrees, suddenly enthused. He rolls off of his bed and grabs the sheet of paper I've been working on with all of the witness's names and addresses.

"You get all these just from those articles?" he asks, skimming the list.

I smile sheepishly, and Dean raises his eyebrows in response. "Impressive," he says. "Let's go, I'll drop you off at the station."

"Gimme a minute."

Dean shifts impatiently as I take a quick shower and get dressed in the obligatory suit and tie, so much so that he's practically bouncing off the walls by the time I'm ready, no more than twenty minutes later.

"We gotta cut those locks of yours, Cinderella," he says as we climb quickly into the Impala to escape the rain that's still coming down pretty hard. "Shouldn't take you that long to shower."

I snort and it turns into a full-on laugh, surprising us both. "It's Rapunzel, Dean. Rapunzel's the one with the hair."

Dean returns a hearty laugh of his own, shaking his head. "That's it. Next gas station we find, I'm buying you a shit-ton of skin mags. We gotta bring some of that testosterone to the surface, make sure it actually exists somewhere in that gigantor body of yours."

"Hey! No hitting the driver!" he says a second later, after my fist makes less than gentle contact with his shoulder.

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Dean drops me at the police station with the promise that we'll meet up again in a few hours. The library's not far, so if I finish up before he does, I'll make my way over there and do some more research. Dean's not dumb enough to ask which kind of research I'm talking about. I make my way through the double glass doors of the police station and head for the front desk.

"Agent Stone, FBI," I say by way of greeting. An officer who looks to be little older than twenty squints back at me, rolling his small shoulders back with a sharp nod. His uniform reads _'Webb,'_ scrawled out in thin, white lettering.

"You're here about the recent bodies, I'm guessing?" he asks, all business. Military posture. I like him immediately. I nod. "Deputy Reynolds has the files you're looking for. I'll take you back there."

Deputy Reynolds is at least twice as old as Webb, but amazingly, he seems to be about half as intelligent. A thick, brown caterpillar of a mustache crawls its way across his upper lip, and his large brown eyes are encased within a pair of thin, round spectacles. It seems wrong to refer to them as glasses. Within five minutes of talking with me, he's repeated the same phrase at least eight times: "It's just the darndest thing, ain't it?"

Eventually I convince him to give me a few minutes alone with the files, but after looking them over a few times, I find no new information: none of the victims seem to be connected in any way, but their deaths are always gory, as if a wild animal got them. Shallyn Reeser was the first body, followed by Randy Forrester four days later. Next came Karen Schneider, and finally, Darren Luisa. When I'm done looking through those, I ask to see any information regarding the witness accounts of a mystery woman wandering around town- what Dean assumes is the spirit responsible. He could be right, but I'm still not convinced. According to the files, witnesses to this 'mystery woman' have seen her at the scene of a few of the murders. So it's a possibility, sure. Or a coincidence. Realizing I won't be able to find anything else here, I re-organize the files, thank Reynolds and Webb on my way out, and head for the library. The rain has thankfully stopped by now, but I still keep a quick pace. It's already late, and I want to cram in as much time as I can for research before Dean comes back for me. And by research, I mean Hell deals and contracts and loopholes.

Like Dean said, it's a small town (about 800 people), so the library doesn't have much to offer in the way of lore books. At least not much that would be considered accurate. I scan the aisles anyway and come away with a couple of options, making my way over to the nearest seating area. A little over an hour later, Dean comes around to pick me up. He's wearing the weirdest grin, a cross between goofy and leering. I notice it all the way from the front door of the library.

"Dude, what's up with you?" I ask as I slide into the passenger seat. Dean makes no move to drive away, still just grinning at me.

"Can we make the executive decision right now that I should just always interview the witnesses?" he asks back.

I look at him a little longer, not quite able to read what's going on in that crazy head of his. It's frustrating, because I know he can always read me like a book, no matter which particular version of which particular expression I'm wearing. "Uh...why?" I ask finally, taking the bait. Dean smiles wider.

"Because Lorna Luisa is probably the most gorgeous thing to ever walk the planet, and I don't think I'll ever meet anyone like _that_ at a damn police station," he says.

"Wow," I laugh. "Man she must've been something for you to use the word 'gorgeous.' That's like, unheard of for you. Has it finally happened, then?"

"Has what finally happened?" Dean asks, pulling out of the library and back onto the road towards our motel.

I pause for dramatic effect, my tone airy and taunting. "Has my brother finally fallen in _love_?"

Dean snorts, but there's something else in his expression that makes me do a double take. Because, just for a second, the humor had fallen completely from his expression. It had only been for a moment, but there was true longing in that look. And it sobers me up quick. Because I see what Dean does.

I see a road stretched in front of us, a life filled with loneliness and blood and brutality. I see scars left by monsters and holes left by loss. I remember Dean's face when he saw Benjamin Braeden for the first time; when he did the math and thought maybe, just maybe, he'd be leaving something behind when he left this world. And I'm looking at Dean and I'm looking at that road that used to seem so endless, and I realize that now, the asphalt is running out, will be burned to nothing in thirteen (now closer to twelve) short days unless I can find a way to save my brother from Hell.

"Ouch! No hitting the passenger!" I yell instinctively when Dean's hand reaches out to smack the back of my head. He sticks his tongue out at me, that unfathomable smile etched into his features again. I smile back.

Dean's not the only one who can wear masks.

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 **See you next Thursday and thanks for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Sorry this one's a bit late, but happy Thursday!**

* * *

"Alright, so aside from this Lorna girl's phone number, did you actually manage to dig up any information we can actually _use_?" I ask Dean as we make our way back into our motel room, Chinese takeout in hand. I sit at the table by the window and start to dig in. It's been a long day, but we're still not moving as quickly as I'd like. Dean promised we'd be in and out, but we haven't gone out to shoot anything yet. I've never minded research, but if nothing's dead, we can't leave. And if we can't leave, we can't figure out how to undo Dean's deal. I called Bobby earlier in the day, on my way to the library. That number. Thirteen. It just kept jumping around inside my head, and I needed to feel like I was doing something about it. So I called Bobby and I asked if he could get a head start on research before we got there. I'd been met with an indignant huff followed by one of the angriest retorts I've ever received. It was something along the lines of:

" _If you think for one second that I haven't been working my_ ass _off this entire goddamn_ year _to try and save your brother, then you've got no idea what the hell I'm about. Couple days head start? Couple_ days _head start? Boy, I've got over three hundred of 'em. Solve your goddamn case and get your nimrod of a brother over here so we can sort this shit out once and for all."_

He'd hung up after that.

"Actually, yeah," Dean replies, hauling me back to the current conversation. He kicks off his boots, settles onto his bed, and begins picking at his chow mein. No doubt he'd find noodles buried somewhere in those sheets tomorrow. "Lorna wasn't very helpful when it comes to our case, I'll give you that, but I checked a few more names off the list. Another guy…what was his name? Bradley…Forrester or something?" he pauses for a second, contemplatively shoving more noodles into his mouth before continuing. "Anyway, Brad or Brett or whatever his name is said his brother complained about this really awful screaming a few weeks before he disappeared. Like he'd hear it every night; the same bloodcurdling scream. Woke him up, left him paranoid and agitated all day."

"Huh," I mumble around a mouthful of teriyaki chicken. It's a little dry. "Any other victims hear this screaming?"

"Yup," Dean confirms. "A few other family members I talked to said their brother or daughter or son or whoever it was complained about this really loud screaming right before they died."

I nod thoughtfully, pulling out my laptop and firing it up. Dean seems content with his food, so we let the conversation die out as we finish our meal, me multi-tasking with more research. After a while, I've managed to scrounge up a few more possibilities, and I share them with my brother.

"Okay really Sam, a screaming skull? Those don't actually exist," Dean snorts, a slew of takeout boxes (and yes, I can see a few stray noodles peeking out from the sheets, even from here) now adorning his bed. "Plus, they don't kill people. They just scare the hell out of them if they get moved from their original spot. And not every house would have a freakin' _skull_ …"

"Dean that was just one possibility, okay? I'm just throwing things out there," I cut in, not willing to hear an extensive rant about an apparently nonexistent supernatural creature. Time. We're just wasting so much time.

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And another day later, after a visit with the coroner and a few more interviews with family members of the victims, we're still just spinning our wheels. The only positive is that there haven't been any more deaths.

"Well Echoes are out," I say, hunkered down at my laptop once again, this time with the discarded wrappings of a cheeseburger sitting next to me. Not my first choice of a meal, but small towns equal limited options. "The screaming part is possible, but they don't kill people either." I scrunch up my napkin and sink it into the garbage can about fifteen feet away. Dean raises an eyebrow, impressed. "Wendigos are known to impersonate human screams, but these people didn't disappear in the middle of the woods. So right now, my best guesses are a mare or a banshee."

"Thought banshees didn't kill people either though," Dean challenged. "They just tell you when someone's gonna die. A mare though…remind me what those are? They're literally called 'nightmares,' aren't they?"

"Yeah exactly. Mares…or nightmares," I say, reading directly from the site I'd found on them, "are described as an evil spirit or goblin that sits on people's chests while they sleep and brings on bad dreams. So the screaming could just be part of those dreams I guess? Says here if you wake up while the mare is still there, you're a goner."

"Nah, see that doesn't add up either," Dean replies, tossing his own empty wrapper and missing the garbage can by a couple inches. He scowls and makes his way over to stand behind me so he can see the screen.

"Why not?"

"Because these people didn't disappear from their beds. They're all just going about their business when they get snatched."

"So a blackdog then? They do look like animal attacks."

"Doesn't explain the screaming," Dean counters.

"Shit," I say, slamming the screen of my laptop down. "So we've still got nothing."

Dean rubs a hand over his forehead and yawns. "Yeah well, guess we can pick it up again tomorrow."

I let out a frustrated exhale. This is exactly what I didn't want. A seemingly simple hunt has turned into a complete mystery. And mysteries take time. Time we don't have. "Dean, I don't think…"

"What, Sam?" Dean snaps suddenly, throwing his hands in the air. He begins pacing in front of his bed, wearing a hole into the already hideous carpet. "You wanna just walk away while people are still dying? We don't do that. We _never_ do that. I mean, what would Dad say?"

"I don't care what Dad would say, Dean!" I bellow, my dwindling patience gone. I get up from the table and step in front of my brother, halting his pacing. He rolls his neck out and glares at me. I rarely use our height difference to my advantage, but now I straighten up as much as I can, forcing him to really crane his neck if he wants to look me square in the eye. He takes a small step back and proceeds to burn a hole into his crumpled cheeseburger wrapper on the floor instead.

"You said this would be easy, Dean. You said a couple days tops and then we'd be back at Bobby's trying to find a way to save you from this deal. We can't waste anymore of those days here. Let's just call another hunter and have him come take care of it. We've got other things to worry about right now."

Dean's already shaking his head before I've fully finished speaking, his tongue pushed up against the back of his teeth. "Come on, Sam. It's been two fucking days. Two. We still got eleven left. That's…"

"That's _not_ plenty of time!" I'm really yelling now, my voice carrying enough to bounce off of the walls that surround us, reinforcing their impact. "God, why don't you give a shit, Dean? I thought we got over the whole 'I'm not afraid to die' facade. Why can't you just let me help you, let me _save_ you?

The room is silent for a moment. I watch as Dean finally rips his eyes away from the wrapper to look at me, his forehead scrunched in something past agitation. "Because." It comes out as a half-whisper.

"Because _why_?" I echo his softened tone.

Dean swallows. "Because…because if you _can't_ , then maybe you won't blame yourself so much. Maybe you'll move on."

"What the hell are you talking about?" I ask, trying to read his expression. And again, I can't do it. I can't _see_ him the way he sees me. All I can see is pain, like he's holding back some terrible secret, some monstrous confession. He huffs out a ragged breath, smiling at me.

"Sammy what I'm saying is that I don't believe there's a way out for me anymore. I've pretty much accepted that by now. So I just wanted to save a few more people before I go, and I figured maybe if we just stayed busy…if we just kept moving, you'd forget about it a little bit. Just a little bit. And you'd be able to just be here with me, for this one last year. And then when it was over, you'd be okay. Because this year wouldn't've been about trying to save me and then not being able to. It would've been about hunting. It would've just been about us, you know? And then when it was over, it would just be…over."

Dean stops talking, but he keeps his eyes locked with mine. They are filled with a plea I cannot accept, cannot even begin to contemplate.

"So you're just what…you're just giving up?"

"No that's not…" Dean runs a hand down over his eyes, finally breaking contact. "I'm just saying maybe it's time we accept what we can't change. I don't regret it Sam, not for a second, and I don't want you to spend the rest of _your_ life regretting it either. Thinking maybe it could've gone differently. Because it couldn't have. Because no matter how you slice it, I would've made that deal. And we'd be standing right here. And I'd be…I'd be asking you not to waste the years you have. I'd be asking you to try to forget about me. Just enough to have a life. A _real_ life."

I can't look at him. I can't reply. I can't understand how he doesn't see what he's done to us, to _me_. The one person he wanted to protect, and he's broken me beyond repair. With his deal, and now with his words. There are tears burning behind my eyelids, a heat I can't escape. I grab my jacket and the Impala's keys. I hear him call after me, long strides to try and reach me. I'm taller. I'm faster.

I slam the door on the way out.

* * *

 **Please leave your thoughts if you have time and thanks for reading!**


	5. Chapter 5

**If you're all caught up on the actual show and have yet to see the season 10 gag reel, I suggest finding it online somewhere because it truly is a treasure. In the meantime, here's another chapter.**

* * *

Dean wakes up like the world is burning.

By the time I'd come back to the room hours later, Dean had been asleep. And now it's three in the morning and he's definitely not asleep. He hits the floor like a cat, flipping on the lamp switch beside the bed and gripping his colt in one hand, the other coming up to press hard against his forehead.

"Agghh," he groans, swinging his gun wildly around the room. "Sam!"

"What?! What is it?" I yell back, having been awoken the moment I heard him load his gun. Even at Stanford, this instinct never died. So I too am out of bed, my own gun in my hand, squinting into the sudden brightness and not seeing anything. The door to the room is still closed, the chain hanging from it. The lights aren't flickering, no static from the TV. No sign of anything paranormal, no sign of anything I've been trained to look for since I was a kid old enough to balance a gun in my hand.

"You can't hear it?" Dean shouts, bringing both hands up to cover his ears now, the cold metal of his gun pressed against his right temple. He groans again and squeezes his eyes shut, shoulders curling in over his head, as if sheltering him from a tornado I cannot feel.

"Dean. Listen to me," I say, trying not to let my voice shake. "There's nothing here. There's no noise. Tell me what you think you hear."

I know the answer before he says it.

"Screaming. Someone's screaming."

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* * *

"Are you sure it's…"

"Yes. I don't hear anything anymore." Dean is aggravated, which only serves to hike up my own agitation. We're sitting in the same diner as yesterday with the same comfortable seats and we've both ordered the same things we did last time. Only thing different is that Patty has been replaced by a portly man named Albert who couldn't seem to accept the fact that neither of us wanted coffee. Dean finally lamented, and his fingers are currently wrapped around the cup of black caffeine, his eyes skittering to every far corner of the restaurant just so he won't have to look at me. But I am looking at him, and I understand why Albert insisted on coffee.

"Was it…?"

"Just a high-pitched screaming, Sam. Like I said," Dean interrupts again, reading my mind. He takes a sip of coffee, grimacing as he swallows. For a while I thought it was just a distain for coffee, but I eventually figured out that Dean doesn't like hot drinks of any kind. I have a vague memory of him dropping ice cubes into his hot chocolate after a snowball fight when the two of us were little. One of the most lethal hunters in the world, but hand him a steaming cup of anything and he's out the door.

"The good news is, the other victims had been hearing the screaming for a while before they got mauled or whatever, so we've got a few days to figure this out," he says between tiny sips. If he's drinking it when it's still this hot, he must actually need it, which makes me wonder why he declined in the first place. Probably to keep me from worrying. As usual.

I'm glad Albert asked twice.

"I'm thinking we should split up, cover more ground. You should go to the coroner's office and then maybe hit the library again, look into the town's history. Anything that might explain that mystery woman. She's connected to this somehow, I know she is," Dean continues, rational as ever, even with his head on the chopping block. I suppose he's used to it by now. I never will be.

"And what are _you_ gonna do?" I ask. Dean waits until Albert sets our food in front of us and walks off again before he answers.

"Not sure. Maybe revisit some of the witnesses from before, see what else I can dig up."

"Sounds like a waste of time, honestly," I say, sprinkling salt over my omelet without tasting it first. And then the realization hits and I shake my head. "Or is that just code for: 'I'm gonna go visit Lorna again'?"

Dean smirks a little and shrugs. "Hey, like you said, eleven days ain't a lot of time. If you'd've met her, you'd understand. She's like…I don't know. Bucket list material."

Dean sees my expression and presses on before I can talk, his tone more serious this time. "Look, Sam, I promise I'll look for answers on this case too. I can multi-task, I swear. I'm not taking this lightly. I'm not, okay? I just want…"

"Yeah, I get it," I say, not letting him finish. I know what he'll say, or at least, I have the general idea:

" _I just want one more good thing before I go. Just this last thing before I have to burn in Hell for the rest of eternity while you live out your life topside, knowing you're the reason I'm down there.'"_

He wouldn't phrase it like that, not ever. But it's what I would be thinking. Hell, it's what I'm thinking anyway.

Eleven fucking days.

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* * *

We leave the diner a little while later, and I try not to notice how many pancakes are left untouched on Dean's plate. He drops me at the coroner's office and heads off to what I assume is Lorna's house. When he comes to pick me up at the library a few hours later, he's wearing another one of those unreadable expressions. I wonder how many he has stashed away. I wonder if he even knows how infuriating it is to see a new one plastered on his face. I will probably never see them all now.

"What?" I ask, as I once again slide into the car, temporarily forgetting about the discovery I'd made at the coroner's. Dean's inner thoughts are, frankly, a lot more important in my opinion. But I disguise my curiosity with a joke. "Lorna wasn't all you imagined her to be?"

"I…what?" Dean's asks distractedly. He hasn't made a move to pull away from the curb yet and he's got one hand curled gingerly around the steering wheel, the other barely resting on his lap like he's afraid to touch anything with too much force. "No I…" he starts again. Stops.

"Seriously, what's wrong?" I ask, more concerned this time. _God, what is it this time? Why is it always something?_

"No, nothing's _wrong_ , really," Dean says, but it sounds like he's asking a question. "I just…the other victims, they heard the screaming before they died, right?"

"Right," I nod expectantly, waiting for him to elaborate. He does.

"So I've been thinking that maybe we were right before. Maybe this _is_ a banshee. And they don't kill people, like we said, so then maybe that means we're looking for two monsters here. We just got so caught up on the screaming thing that we couldn't make it add up. Because it doesn't. Because it's two things. See what I'm saying?"

I nod, contemplating. It wouldn't be the first time one fugly turned out to be two…or more. It's just our Winchester luck, apparently. I'm about to open my mouth to respond when the real significance of what he's said actually hits me. _They heard the screaming before they died._

Dean heard the screaming too.

Dean heard the scream of a banshee because he's going to die. Because he's going to Hell in eleven days, and according to him, and apparently this banshee, there's no stopping it. I turn to look at him, and I can tell he knows I've caught on, but he doesn't say anything else. He just pulls the Impala away from the library, hands finding a firmer grasp on the steering wheel now as we turn back onto the street.

A couple minutes later, he finally speaks again. "Okay, so we almost have to start from scratch on this one. Did you find anything about the town that would explain this woman everyone's been seeing around?" I shake my head. "Alright, so then 'mystery lady' is most likely the banshee and not an angry spirit. So I think you were right before- it's gotta be something with some teeth and claws to cause that kind of damage."

"Blackdog," I say automatically.

"You think?"

"Pretty sure, actually," I reply, my second visit to the coroner's office suddenly falling into place with everything else. "At the coroner's office today, I talked with an older guy that's been working there a while. The first time I went, he wasn't there; it was just some young intern filling in, which is probably why she forgot to mention it. Anyway, this guy said that all of the victims had dirt on their clothes. Like they'd been dragged through it or something. Not a lot of dirt around here unless…"

"Unless you're in a graveyard," Dean finishes. "But can't blackdogs haunt any area? Not just graveyards?"

"Well yeah, but it's usually a place of tragedy, which usually means graveyard," I reason. "And according to what I was able to dig up, the only recent tragedy was the death of their town mayor."

"And when was that?" Dean asks.

"About three weeks ago."

"Right about the time people started dying?"

"Exactly."

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* * *

We sit in silence for the rest of the drive, me staring out the window as we fly back to the motel, watching the lines on the road blur together. It isn't until we're back in our room that I remember my question from earlier.

"So, whatever happened with Lorna then?"

Dean has his back turned to me, digging through his duffel. Searching. "Nothing," he mutters. He stops shuffling things around in his bag, and I hear him let out a sigh. It sounds like relief.

"Aw come on," I laugh, "The trusty Dean Winchester charm not workin' too good for you today?"

"Guess not," is all he says, moving for the bathroom. I stop smirking abruptly and reach for his arm, spinning him back around to face me and snagging his wrist.

"Jeez Sam, can't a guy piss in peace? What's the problem?" he growls, trying to get free. I manage to keep my grip on him, searching his expression.

"Dean, come on. What's going on?" I ask, my eyes wide and pleading in the way I know my brother hates. "I know when something's up, I'm not stupid."

Dean finally shrugs out from my hold on his arm and takes a step back, glaring at me. I wait, watching as a thousand different expressions flutter across his features before he settles on defeat, a heavy sigh rattling his lungs. I wait some more. Finally, he talks.

"I went back to Lorna's," he starts. "And I rang the doorbell and she told me to just walk in, right? And when I walk in, she's washing this jacket in her sink. And it was covered in dirt and blood. Just…covered in blood. So I asked her what she was doing. And she tells me it was her brother's. You know, the one who died? Says she just wanted to get it clean and keep it because it was his favorite. But the thing is, I'm looking at this jacket and…"

Dean pauses, licking his lips.

"And what?" I prod.

"And it was mine. Or, Dad's I guess, technically. But the one I wear all the time. Dad's old leather jacket. I'd know that damn thing anywhere." Dean sucks in a breath and gives me a weak smile before continuing. "So I tell her it's mine and she stops washing it and she just looks at me with these big, sad eyes. But it's like she's looking _through_ me, you know? And she just looks at me and she says 'I'm sorry.'"

I see my brother breathe, in and out, one big sigh. I know there's something else, and that these next words will show me what I'm missing. Already, the pieces are coming together in my mind, a mostly-formed picture that means we've finally figured out what's going on here. I suppose I should be glad. It will mean that we're one step closer to solving this case, which means we'll be one step closer to hunkering down at Bobby's and finding a solution to the only 'case' that matters to me anymore. But instead, when Dean's words come, I feel no relief. He is still wearing that little half-smile, just the one side of his mouth turned up, as if he's partly amused, partly still searching for the meaning behind the punch-line, the thing that makes this joke so damn funny. He breathes again.

"And then she starts screaming," he shrugs; lip twitching like he finally gets it.

Sometimes I really hate that smile.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading/reviewing. More to come next Thursday!**


	6. Chapter 6

**PREVIOUSLY:**

 _Dean sucks in a breath and gives me a weak smile before continuing. "So I tell her it's mine and she stops washing it and she just looks at me with these big, sad eyes. But it's like she's looking_ _through_ _me, you know? And she just looks at me and she says 'I'm sorry'_

 _"And then she starts screaming."_

* * *

 **NOW:**

Dean stares at the floor for a second, head tilted to the side as if he's remembering the way Lorna's scream pierced right through him. And then he walks into the bathroom and shuts the door, leaving me frozen in place. I stay there for a second, and then suddenly I am all movement, my laptop open in front of me as I sit back down at the table by the door of our room. By the time Dean reemerges, I've found what I'm looking for. Dean sees me hunched over the laptop and smiles that infuriating little half smile again.

"I looked it up too," he says. "Didn't take long to find. Apparently banshees are known for washing the clothes of those who are about to die. Good news is, it's just an illusion. Dad's jacket is still in my bag. Safe and sound." Dean tries for a full-on smirk, but stops when he glances at me. I don't know what my face looks like, but apparently it's bad enough for Dean to walk over to me and slap a hand on my shoulder.

"Hey," he says. "We'll figure it out, Sammy, alright? We just have to take care of this blackdog and then we'll head over to Bobby's and we'll handle everything else. But the job comes first. And now we know what we're up against."

"We have to kill Lorna too," I say, a slight waver in my voice.

"Nah man, she's harmless," is Dean's reply. He squeezes my shoulder a little harder and walks over to take a seat on his bed. He leans forward so that his elbows are resting on his knees, hands rubbing against one another. He makes a pattern inside his palms as he speaks, etching out imaginary lines with the soft pads of his fingertips. "Believe me, all she does is announce death. That's all. We can leave her be."

I bristle. He looks so relaxed, sitting like that. Like we're figuring out what to order for dinner. "How do you know that for sure though, Dean?" I snap. "You saw it on some website so it must be true? I say better safe than sorry. I don't care if you have a soft spot for her or whatever- she's a monster."

"Sammy, listen to me, she's not the enemy here," Dean argues. He looks up from his hands now, though they are still half-pressed together, the fingers of his right digging into the palm of his left. "And no, it wasn't some website. I got it directly from the source. After she stopped screaming…we uh, we talked for a minute. It's a sucky existence, sure, but she doesn't actually do any of the killing."

"Are you serious? You trust what some monster tells you now?" I growl. There is a flurry of anger growing inside my chest, but I can't decide who it should be directed at. Deep down, I think I know it shouldn't be Loran. She's not the real problem. I trust my brother's judgment on that, as with most things. But I can't let it go. So I just keep talking, spitting words I don't even half-believe. "Well guess what, I don't, Dean. I don't trust her, and I don't care if you think she's harmless."

"You used to," Dean says softly. "You used to care so much, Sam, more than enough for both of us. What happened?"

I stand up from the table, looking down at my big brother where he still sits on his bed. I've felt this coming for a long time. Ever since the night that should've been one of the happiest of our lives, the night we'd finally killed the demon that had plagued our family for so many years. But instead, it was also the night that I found out I would lose Dean. It was the night I started to crumble. I've tried so hard to hold all the pieces together since then, to be strong like my brother and carry on as he always has. But now I watch the last of my sanity shatter. I listen to it ricochet off the walls of my brain and clatter onto the ground, and I can't stop the shaking that starts in my fingertips and tracks its way up along my arms, spreads all the way down to my toes.

"What happened?" I whisper, my voice ragged and cracked, as if I've swallowed glass. It feels like I have. I think I might want to. "What happened is you made a deal, Dean. You decided you couldn't live without me, and now you've forced me to have to live without _you_ instead. And you think I can do it Dean, but I can't. I'm not strong enough. I've tried. I've tried to be more like you, but I'm not and I can't. I won't last without you. Don't make me. Why are you making me?"

I have been pacing, trying to stomp some of this uncontrollable, gut-wrenching fury into the carpet below my feet, but now I turn to face my brother. Dean's eyes are closed tight, like he's trying to block out all the light left in the world. He squeezes them shut like that for a long time, and then he glances up at the ceiling and I can see the tears glistening just behind his eyes. He takes a stuttered breath, and then another, the air whistling out of him like a tire losing air. His hands are clasped together now, strangling each other. I feel the moisture of my own tears sliding their way down my cheeks. I could never hold them back the way Dean could. So I'm standing there letting a few of them fall, and I realize that I'm waiting for my big brother to do what he always does. I'm waiting for Dean to look me in the eye and smile and say 'it's okay, Sammy. It'll all be okay.'

All the monsters I've killed. All the things I've seen and done and known, and I still think my big brother can make it all better. I still think he can fix everything. But instead, Dean doesn't look at me. He doesn't smile. He says:

"I'm sorry, Sammy." And then he heaves in another breath, like he's coming up for air after years underground. I watch him push back against all the things he actually wants to say. I watch him carefully fold this conversation in on itself, stick it in some far corner of his mind and let it die. And then he finally looks at me. "We'll find this blackdog tonight, as soon as the sun goes down," he declares, "and Lorna walks."

I blink.

"And how do you plan on killing it?" I ask after a moment, wiping at the remaining tears that still track my face. It is far easier than I imagined it would be to make the transition from devastation back to frustration—they seem to be my two default setting as of late. "Salt rounds will only work for a second. It'll come right back. We need a way to get rid of it for good."

Dean still isn't looking at me. "So then what do you suggest?" he asks.

I don't say anything. We both know what I'm thinking, what our only option is. I haven't spoken with Ruby in a while, and she hasn't seemed inclined to get in contact with me either. But we need her. I know it, and so does Dean.

"I'm calling Ruby," I say. "Just for the knife."

I expect an argument, but I get none. Dean just nods and then lowers his head, running both hands over his face. "I'll figure out which cemetery the mayor is buried in, if there's more than one," he replies, voice muffled through his palms.

I nod even though he won't see it and slip out the door to call Ruby. No response. I call again ten minutes later from the room. I don't think Dean has moved. Straight to voicemail. I call a third time with the same result.

"Now what?" I ask.

Dean shrugs. "Wait til tomorrow?"

"We can't waste another day here," I say. "I'm summoning her."

Again, I expect an argument. I almost want one. But Dean is silent. He just nods again.

My phone rings.

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* * *

Ruby shows up not long after with the same aggravated expression she always wears. I wonder if demons ever know true happiness. Sure, they find pleasure in the torment and pain of others, but I don't think it's the same thing. I hope it isn't. I hope they are robbed of the very best of human emotions. Maybe that's why they try so hard to rip ours from us.

"What is it, Sam?" Ruby asks. She strides into the room the moment I've broken the salt line, arms crossed, blonde hair swept over one shoulder. It looks longer than it did the last time I saw her, and I wonder if that's even possible. Can the hair of her vessel grow while she wreaks havoc inside of it?

Dean stands up from the bed as she stops a few feet inside the door, her presence finally seeming to breathe some life back into him.

"We need your knife," I say, not wasting any time with small talk. The sun had already set hours ago.

"Why?"

"Blackdog."

She scoffs and rolls her eyes. "Seriously, Sam? You call me for a goddamn milk run? Regardless of what you might think, I actually have other things to be doing right about now. Besides, I've already made enough enemies. Having a blackdog killed with my knife doesn't really win me any points."

"Oh I'm sorry, did we cut into your arts and crafts time?" Dean snarls, mirroring Ruby with his arms crossed and his chin jutted out. "Please. We all know you're not winning any Nobel Hell Prizes anytime soon. The way I see it, the sooner you hand over the knife, the sooner you can get back to whatever the hell it is you do. How about that?"

Ruby glares at Dean, but she's smirking. "I definitely won't miss that attitude in…what is it now, ten days? Nine? Getting down to the wire there, aren't we, Dean?"

I step toward the demon, that same heated anger flaring up from somewhere deep inside my stomach again. It feels good to direct it at someone who deserves it this time. It feels even better to watch her take a step back, holding her hands out in surrender as my strides grow longer, expression deadly. Her own expression softens slightly, the smirk finally gone. Hers is worse than Dean's.

"Sorry. Look, I'll give you the knife, okay?" she says. "But you can't keep it past tonight. I've got demons gunning for me left and right, and it helps having a weapon like that."

"Deal," I reply, holding out my hand. Ruby rolls her eyes again and reaches into her jacket, hesitantly pulling out the knife and dropping it into my waiting grasp.

"I'll be back in a couple hours," she says. And then she's gone.

"Okay," Dean says, clapping his hands together. "Let's go."

* * *

 **Thanks for reading. See you next week! Also, I apologize for the delayed response on some of your reviews. I promise I'll get to them, and I really do appreciate you leaving them!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Happy Thursday!**

* * *

It's half past eleven by the time we make it to the graveyard where the town mayor was buried, shotguns loaded with salt rounds and Ruby's knife a comforting presence against my side. It's a small town, but the graveyard is fairly sizable, surrounded by an intricate wrought iron fence ending in an open gate that stands parallel to the street, tall and imposing. We walk past the doors of the gate and into the cemetery, me leading the way, the knife now in my hand with a flashlight glinting in the other. Dean flanks my left side, shotgun raised. He stops me a second later, his hand on my arm.

"Shhh…hear that?"

"Hear what?" I whisper back, every muscle tensing. And then I do hear it. It's a low keening sound coming from the far reaches of the graveyard straight ahead. I quickly click my flashlight off but I keep it in my hand for when I'll need it. If we can sneak up on the thing, we'll be in much better shape than trying for a full-on attack. Blackdogs have a tendency to attack the moment their territory is threatened. And they're quick. Dean motions me to the right as he circles back left, disappearing momentarily from my sight behind a tall headstone and then picking up his pace, weaving in and out as he moves toward the source of the noise. I try to keep an eye on him as I mirror his actions on the opposite side, staying as low to the ground as possible as I practically sprint to keep up with my brother. The headstones seem to be growing in both width and height as we move further in, and it's getting harder and harder to keep track of where Dean is. I think about cutting back across to find him, but that would defeat the purpose of coming at the blackdog from both sides. I'd only put us both in jeopardy.

Finally, I catch a quick glimpse of Dean as he slinks past another gravestone, shotgun swinging in one hand, his strides slower now as we near our target. The keening has transitioned into a recognizable panting, but it somehow sounds almost menacing. Dean turns sharply to look at me, sending me the hand signal for "push forward." I nod in agreement and he echoes with a sharp nod of his own before he moves forward, shotgun raised and at the ready. I am running again, looking to arc back around so that we can meet in the middle. And then I hear it.

A low growl, echoing off of the surrounding headstones and seeming to originate from just about where I last saw Dean.

Cursing under my breath, I backtrack quickly. I see Dean's flashlight flicker on directly to my left, a shot ringing out less than a second later. I immediately flip my own flashlight back on, finally landing on the snarling mutt just as it disintegrates with a piercing howl.

"You good?" I shout a little too loudly, finally reaching Dean's side a few moments later. He's breathing hard, surveying the place where the blackdog disappeared, eyes narrowed. He looks unharmed though.

"I'm fine," he confirms, turning to face me. "Hit it square, but it'll be back. God those things are ugly."

I'm about to laugh and make some sarcastic retort, but at that moment, the dog reappears just a few feet behind Dean. And now it's angry.

"Dean!" I warn, shoving him aside instinctively. Caught off guard, he stumbles back into a headstone and his knees buckle beneath him, sending him gracelessly to the ground. I hear his pained grunt, followed by the sound of his shotgun falling from his grasp and hitting the ground a few feet away. I have no time to apologize for my abruptness, because in the next moment, the blackdog hits me dead on, sending us both careening backwards into the dirt. I let out an involuntary cry as I feel the swipe of claws cut across my chest. The arm with Ruby's knife is pinned beneath me, the other preoccupied with keeping the mutt's snapping jaws away from my face. It keeps clawing at me, digging new holes into my flesh, and I feel the sickly warmth of my own blood bubbling out and spilling onto the ground. Relief comes a second later with the blast of a shotgun and the screaming of my name as the dog disappears again. Dean drops to his knees in front of me, expression torn somewhere between fear and rage.

He rips his jacket off and immediately presses it into the deepest claw marks. "It's okay Sammy, they're not that deep," he says.

I can tell by his tone that he means it, so I relax a little bit, but the pain still won't let me go. And neither will my awareness. It takes a second, but I find the right muscles and move my right arm, the one with Ruby's knife, into Dean's eye-line.

"Take it," I say. "It'll be back."

Dean nods and takes the knife, still keeping pressure over the cuts in my chest. He picks up his discarded flashlight, which must've also fallen when I'd pushed him, and whips it around the graveyard, searching.

"Sammy, hold this steady, okay?" he says, pushing the fabric of his coat even deeper into the cuts to make his point. I groan but force my arms to cooperate, moving them so that I can take over Dean's administrations. He nods encouragingly, his attention still only half on me as he surveys the space around us. I can't see the blackdog reemerge, but I hear its low growl. Dean does too, and he hones the flashlight in on what I assume is the dog as he gets slowly to his feet, keeping himself between me and the threat. I try to get up, but it feels as if my stomach muscles have been ripped to shreads, and I have no strength left to pull myself up. My arms are jello and my vision is blurring a little bit and it feels better to just close my eyes, but I can still picture the scene, can imagine the way the blackdog is inching towards my big brother, snarling. And there is nothing I can do about it but continue to watch the scene unfold inside my head. I know how Dean would hold the knife steady, would wait for his opening. He finds it soon after. I know because I hear him lunge forward, a low growl escaping him as he hits his target. There is a shorts scuffle followed by one deafening howl that seems to have enough force to shatter a few tombstones. And then the world goes silent. My grip on Dean's jacket has loosened considerably, but I can't find the energy to apply any more pressure. A second later, I feel Dean's presence back at my side.

"Sammy? You hanging in there?" he asks, running a hand across my forehead. I nod and manage to open my eyes a little bit, watching Dean's blurry form move through thin slits. "Can you walk?" he asks.

I nod again and feel Dean shift his weight, wrapping his arms around me and lifting me to my feet, keeping pressure on the bloodied mess that is my chest. It's a short but agonizing ascent, and I bite my tongue so that only a few small whimpers slip past my teeth. Dean hears it though.

"I'm sorry. Shit, I'm sorry," he murmurs, pulling me along with him. I force my feet to move, letting his words ground me. "Let's just get you back to the car, aright? It's not far. We're not that far. One step at a time, Sammy, come on."

"Dog?" I ask. It comes out scratchy and cracked, but Dean understands.

"Yeah. Got it," he says, pursing his lips as he urges me forward. My feet have slowed, my steps becoming more of a shuffle as Dean takes on the majority of my weight. I'm trying to stay alert, but there is a gray weight hanging above the edges of my eyelids, pushing them down. The time it takes to open my eyes after each blink grows considerably longer, Dean's encouraging words fading in and out.

Despite this, I wait until I hear the creak of the Impala's passenger door swinging open before I let myself fall completely limp in my brother's arms.

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 **A special thank you this week to guest reviewer Jain for all of your lovely comments! You guys really do make it so rewarding to post each week, and I'm excited to continue with this story. Again, thank you to all of those who read and review!**


	8. Chapter 8

**The response to this story so far has been truly awesome, and I love reading your thoughts, so thank you for sticking with this and continuing to read! Here's the latest chapter.**

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There is a weight on top of me, pushing me deeper into what feels like a mattress beneath my bruised body. I try to move, but it feels like I've been strapped down somehow, unable to shift too much without meeting a heavy resistance. My breathing immediately picks up and I focus on staying calm, trying to bring myself back from this foggy aftertaste of unconsciousness and into the real world. One of Dad's old mantras pushes itself steadily through my still-blurry mind: _Assess the situation first. Before panicking, before anything. Just figure out how bad it is and then how you're getting out of it. Breathe. First step is always just to breathe._

I focus on that for a minute, just on the breathing. It helps. Next step.

I blink a few times until I can get my eyes all the way open, casting a quick glance around the familiar motel room without moving anything more than my eyes. I am momentarily distracted by the dust mites that float lazily above my head, filtering out from the lamp next to the bed I'm laying in. Despite the lack of sunlight filtering in through half-closed blinds, the lamp is turned on, casting long shadows across the room, though my eyes have adjusted quickly enough to register the generic layout: two beds, table with the lamp, old TV set, table and chairs next to the door. Glancing down, I find the source of the weight that no longer feels threatening. Dean has pulled a chair up next to my bed and is slumped all the way forward, his right arm slung across my stomach, his head resting on the mattress next to me. But even in unconsciousness, he has managed to avoid interfering with the bandages that I can just barely see, covering the majority of my chest. The burning lamp illuminates the white gauze that's been meticulously wrapped around me; slightly constricting, but never too tight.

"D'n?" I try to say my brother's name, but it comes out as a hoarse whisper and starts a coughing fit that sparks a muted pain all along my chest. Suddenly the weight is gone and Dean is on his feet, the chair flipping backwards onto the carpet with a dull thud. He disappears from my line of sight for half a second and reemerges with a bottle of water, guiding it gently to my lips and letting me take a few sips before he sets it on the table next to my bed.

"How you feeling?" he asks, forehead furrowed in apprehension. He presses a hand to my forehead briefly and then pulls it back almost immediately, as if wondering if he's allowed, if it's too much babying.

"M'okay," I mumble, shifting experimentally. I don't mind the babying sometimes, though I'd never tell Dean. There is pain with movement, but it's just a dull ache that starts at my left shoulder and filters down through my chest. I suddenly feel just a little too light without Dean's arm to weigh me down, my limbs seeming to hover right above the mattress. But when I look down, I see that they are sunken into the sheets.

"You remember what happened?"

"Blackdog," I nod, flinching as the movement sends a pounding through my skull. Since my emergence back into the world of the conscious, I have begun to remember everything that happened in the cemetery almost a little too clearly. There is a slight waver in those memories, as if glancing at them through a thin veil, something that happened to someone else. The bandages around my chest remind me that isn't true. Those kinds of visions stopped a long time ago now, though the steadily growing headache is all too familiar.

"You okay?" I ask, squinting up at my brother and trying to push away from that line of thought. There's a thin bandage wrapped around Dean's right arm, and I can see a small spot of red forming underneath it. Besides that, he just looks tired. Exhausted, actually.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he huffs, shaking his head, his features molding from concern to all-out anguish. "Why'd you shove me out of the way like that? Damn thing almost ripped your head off!"

"You were facing the wrong way," I say, instantly on the defensive. "If I didn't move you, you'd be dead meat. It was just so fast…I couldn't see another way."

"Yeah well, your 'way' almost got you killed," Dean scolds, running a hand through his hair. "Scared the shit outta me, man."

"Sorry," I shrug. I get my hands underneath me and start to push myself up into a sitting position. Dean moves to help me before I collapse, shoving a few extra pillows behind my back until I'm basically upright. "Why doesn't anything hurt?" I ask, amazed by the general lack of pain. I run a hand gently over the bandages wrapped around me. Dean answers me with a shrug of his own.

"Used some of the good stuff to take the edge off. Figured you'd need it. Like I said, you scared the shit out of me. Wasn't pretty. Everything's all stitched up now, plus the holy water treatment, but you gotta be careful moving for a while, okay? You gotta take it easy."

"How long have I been out?" I ask.

"You gotta drink some more water too," Dean talks over me as if he hasn't heard the question. He reaches for the water bottle again and shoves it into my hands before turning his back, fiddling with the TV. It flickers on, the picture coming in fuzzy and unclear. He taps the set a couple times, tilting his head and examining it.

"Dean," I say, my voice rising. "How many days? How many days did we waste?"

Dean stops fiddling with the TV and lets out a deep sigh. "You've only been out two days, alright? It's fine. We just gotta…"

I don't hear the rest of his sentence. My brain is in overdrive, every neuron firing a thousand times over, sending the same message over and over again until it screams its way through my skull. I'm surprised I don't explode.

 _Nine days_ , it says. _Nine days and your brother dies._

"We gotta go," I choke out, swinging my feet over the side of the bed and attempting to stand. Dean spins away from the TV set and grabs both of my arms, manhandling me back onto the bed. I'm a little too groggy and, according to Dean's comment earlier, a little too drugged up to fight him. My limbs feel like jello, and I land back on the mattress with an exasperated groan, latching onto my brother's wrists so he can't pull away. I'm almost surprised I can maintain my grip, but Winchester determination alone has been known to work wonders.

"Dean please," I mutter. "We need to go _now_. We have to get to Bobby's! We have to figure out who owns your soul, how to find them. We have to…"

"Sam it's fine," Dean tries to reassure me. He's let go of my arms now, but I still have a tight hold on his wrists, and I'm still not letting go. That's why I notice when he tenses suddenly, as if an electric shock has run its way through his entire body. His hands ball into fists, nails digging into his palms as he lets out a low gasp, barely staying on his feet. It's as if he's been throttled from behind.

"Dean, wha is it? What?" I plead, watching in horror as Dean finally manages to get free from my grasp. He takes a shaky step backward, sinking to the floor, his back against the opposite bed, knees pulled up to his chest.

"Give it…give it a second," he mumbles, head tucked forward so that I can barely understand him, hands coming up to rub furious circles into both temples.

My descent onto the floor is awkward and a little painful, but I'm finally able to kneel next to him in the small space between our beds, my own hands hovering over him, afraid to touch. The light from the motel lamp is not enough to give me a clear view of him, his body curled into a small ball, a child hiding from a nightmare inside his own fortress. And then I remember.

"It's the banshee, isn't it?" I ask. Dean nods, and a moment later he relaxes, his head coming back up so he can look at me. He smiles stupidly, eyes a little too bright.

"Sorry," he echoes my sentiment from earlier. "Didn't realize what time it was so I wasn't ready for it. I'm fine, I swear. Takes a second and then it passes."

I glance at the clock: 3:06am.

"Same time every night?" I ask.

"Pretty much," he replies, getting to his feet and guiding me up with him as gently as he can. I feel a little bit of a pull on a few stitches, but it's a strange, detached kind of sensation. Dean's pain feels much more real to me, and I watch his face, scrunched in determined concentration as he pulls me up.

"Whatever you gave me, it was too much," I remark, letting him settle me back down on the bed. I have more I want to say, more I need to ask, but I can feel myself drifting a little, dizzy on my feet. I choose the words he most needs to hear now.

"And we gotta pack," I say. "We gotta be ready to leave in the morning, start driving over to Bobby's. We'll call him on the way, okay?"

"Okay," Dean agrees. "I'll pack, you rest."

I want to argue with him, tell him not to forget my toothbrush like the last time he was in charge of packing, but my eyes are already fluttering closed again, my lids far too heavy. Suddenly, everything is too heavy, and I sink reluctantly back into the waiting darkness.

* * *

 **See ya next week.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Barely making the deadline on this one. Oops.**

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It's too dark. I can't see anything. But I can hear. There is a deep, rumbling growl directly in front of me, and I take an automatic step back, searching my pockets blindly for a weapon. All I have is my flashlight. I pull it out and click it on, the thin beam illuminating the space directly in front of me. There's nothing there. But I can still hear the growling and I can sense the slow advance of whatever it is moving closer.

Hellhound. It has to be.

Panicked, I take another step back, and then another, but it keeps coming. The beam of my flashlight is searching the empty air in front of me, so at first I don't see what I trip over. I go down hard onto my back and feel a sharp, painful tug as a few of my stitches break open, my blood almost immediately soaking through to my shirt. I slide the rest of the way over whatever it is that's tripped me up and get to my knees, my flashlight still in hand. I whip the beam around again, though I'm fairly certain I won't be able to see anything. A second later, I wish that were true.

The light skitters over the spot where I tripped for a fraction of a second, so quickly that at first it doesn't register. Because of course it can't be…

My hand is shaking, but I force it to move back until the beam of light allows me to see what's directly in front of me, the thing I've tripped over.

It's my brother.

His eyes are wide open, a naked fear pooling out from their depths that I've never seen before, wish I never had to see. There's blood everywhere. Some of it is spilling out from his silent lips, but most of it originates from the deep slash marks that riddle his chest and stomach, dug deep enough that I can see the thick white wall of his ribcage peeking out from underneath.

He's long past breathing.

 _No._

 _NoNoNoNoNoNoNo._

 _Dean._

I fall backwards, all of my air gone, yet somehow I still manage to start screaming. The low, even growl that has been present the entire time stops abruptly.

" _Sam?"_

" _Sammy?"_

The voice sounds like it's been submerged underwater, but I latch onto it anyway because I know it. I know it, and it sounds like…

Dean.

He's hovering over me, one hand pressed against my cheek, the other shaking my shoulder gently, trying to avoid aggravating my injuries.

"Hey. Hey, you with me?" he asks. And suddenly I am. I nod slowly, coming back to the here and now. I'm sprawled out in the passenger seat of the Impala, one arm wrapped tight around my torso, the other dangling uselessly at my side. I bring it up, hand finding my brother's forearm, just to make sure he's here. To make sure this is real. It is. Dean exhales roughly and leans back against the driver's seat.

"Jeez, Sam," he grumbles, "thought we were over the whole nightmare thing, huh? You alright?"

"I'm fine," I reply automatically, a habit I picked up from my big brother. I shudder at the tangibility of the dream and the overwhelming clarity of Dean's vacant expression that follows every blink. I turn to face the real Dean, waiting for my brain to replace that gory image with the one in front of me. He lets out another soft sigh and shakes his head at me. I doubt he's slept more than eight hours in the past week.

"Want me to drive?" I ask. I don't expect the sharp bark of laughter that sputters out from Dean's chest, nor the genuine smile that crosses his features.

"Dude, you're still so gooped up on gop, I doubt you could walk a straight line," he smirks. "I got it man, we're almost to Bobby's anyway. Maybe another hour."

"Dean, come on," I urge, "I took those pain pills ages ago. Lemme drive for a bit."

Dean just smiles again and shakes his head. "Sammy, I gave you more just a little while ago. And the fact that you can't remember that means you probably shouldn't be operating heavy machinery at the moment, alright? Especially not my Baby. Just get some rest." He pats my shoulder and turns the keys to the Impala. It rumbles back to life, mirroring the low growl I'd heard in my nightmare. Frowning, I try to add up all the time I've lost in this half-awake state. I don't _feel_ drugged. There's a dull fogginess to my senses, sure, and I guess my legs haven't really moved this whole time. They're just sitting there, knees bent and curled towards the driver's side. They look weird. Legs are just weird. And maybe my body feels a little wobbly or wibbly or whatever the word is…those are funny words. Who came up with those? Wobble. Wibble. Wibble-wobble.

Okay yeah, I'm probably a little out of it.

Dean's laughing again, so I turn to look at him.

"What?" I demand, crossing my arms over my chest, trying not to screw up any of the bandages. We've pulled back onto the road now, the trees blurring past us on either side.

"Nothing," Dean says, trying to keep a straight face. "I just think your wibbly-wobbly body needs to rest a little more."

Well shit. Guess I said all that out loud.

"Yes. Yes, you did," Dean chuckles.

 _Dammit._

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Bobby's happy to see us, but if you didn't know him, you wouldn't be able to tell.

"What the hell took you boys so long?" he growls as soon as we've made our way inside. Dean had to help me a little bit, an arm wrapped around my waist with mine draped over his shoulder.

"And what the _hell_ happened to you, Sam?" Bobby sputters as he gets a good look at me; scrutinizing. "You look like someone stuck you in a blender and hit 'puree'. Be nice if you boys could keep yourselves in one piece for longer than _one goddamn day_."

"Sorry Bobby, got caught up," Dean answers first, not letting go of me yet. He drops our weapons bag on the table in Bobby's kitchen and heads for the living room, lowering me onto one of the couches. Bobby follows. I resist at first, worried I'll fall asleep again if I sit down, but Dean shoots me an irritated look and pushes me the rest of the way down onto the cushions.

"Guess I can't complain too much, seeing as both of ya are still breathing," Bobby grunts, arms folded. Dean snorts and disappears from view, coming back a moment later with a beer in his hand.

"Jeez, Dean," I grumble from my place on the couch, "it's like noon!"

"Five o'clock somewhere," Dean shrugs, flicking the cap in my direction and taking a long swig. "So, any leads to look into on the dick who owns my soul, Bobby?" he asks.

"Actually, yeah," Bobby answers. "Bela Talbot."

Dean snorts. "Okay, I know she's got all the personality traits associated with demons, but even if she _is_ one, I don't think she's got the prestige to own a soul like mine. I mean, come on."

"Bela's not the _answer_ ya idjit," Bobby growls, rolling his eyes. "But she's a good place to start."

"Because she has the Colt?" I ask. I'm drifting a little bit, the meds still taking their toll, but so far I've managed to follow the conversation pretty well.

"Aw come on," Dean cuts in, "there's no way she's still got it. Would've sold it to the highest bidder ages ago."

"The Colt would certainly help our situation," Bobby agrees, "but that's not the only reason. Apparently Bela's been in contact with some demons recently. And I'm talkin' real upper-level mooks."

"Why?" I ask.

"Sellin' merchandise? Buying real estate? The hell if I know," Bobby says. "Doesn't matter. All that matters is, she's been talking to 'em. And they probably know who holds your contract Dean. So: we find Bela, we might just find our demon."

"And you know where she is?" Dean inquires.

Bobby shakes his head. "Nah, but I know someone who does. Older hunter by the name of Rufus Turner. Real paranoid son of a bitch, so he won't tell ya over the phone- you gotta go see him. He'll let you know what's what, send you in the right direction."

"Great, let's go," I say, making a move to stand up. I get upright just fine, but once I'm on my feet, the floor…no, the world…decides it wants to start tilting. I throw my hands out, searching for something to grab onto, and a moment later my fingers find the sleeve of my brother's jacket. I'm not sure how he got here so fast, but he manages to wrap an arm around my waist and keep me from falling, still avoiding the bandages taped across my chest.

"Easy there," he says, hauling me over until the backs of my knees hit the couch and I collapse back onto it. "How bout you recover here for a bit longer, okay? I can handle Bela."

"No. No," I insist, trying to keep track of the blurry form of my brother as he begins rearranging the pillows around me, giving my shoulder a light push until I'm suddenly lying down vertical. I didn't give my body permission, but it gave way easily under Dean's touch. And Bobby's couch has never been the most luxurious, but for some reason this is the most comfortable I've been in the past week or so. I know I can't relax though. There's too much…

"I want to go with you," I say. It sounds like a whine, even to my own ears, but I keep talking. "I need to be doing _something,_ Dean. I can't just sit here…"

"You don't have to," Dean reassures me. "Just get a little bit more rest and then you can dig into the books with Bobby; start looking for answers there in case this lead doesn't pan out, okay? I promise, I'll be fine. And I'll be back before you know it."

"Dean, _please_." Dean freezes halfway past the couch, and I know he hears everything I've been trying to hide from him these past few months. Hell, for this entire year. The foggy aftertaste of the medicine that I can feel finally, _finally_ wearing off has stripped my voice of all the control it usually has. I hadn't meant for it to come out that way, but those two words hold every fear that I've kept buried beneath layers of new leads and endless research and countless miles eating up empty stretches of road. I watch my brother's face, the way his mouth opens and then closes over the words he was going to say. I wonder what those words are. But I don't think I'll ever know, because he opens his mouth again and all that comes out is:

"I'll be back soon, Sam."

He slams the door a little harder than he needs to.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading!**


	10. Chapter 10

**Happy Thursday.**

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Dean comes back from his hunt for Bela six days later and doesn't say much unless me and Bobby ask questions. We have three days left. We ask a _lot_ of questions.

 _Did you find Bela?_

 _Did she still have the Colt?_

 _Did you find out why she was talking with demons?_

 _Did you find out who owns your soul?_

And of course, the one I can't stop asking:

 _Are you okay?_

We get answers to all but the last.

"Yeah, I found her. She didn't have the Colt, just like I told you guys she wouldn't," Dean replies to the first two questions. We're all sitting in Bobby's study, lore books and random scraps of paper spread out around us in a way that reminds me of finals week at Stanford. I'm a completely different person than I was back when I was at college, but lately I've found myself wishing I could go back to the days when exams were my biggest problem. I'd have to be crazy not to, I think. I'm already going crazy, I think.

 _Three days. Three days. Three days._

Dean isn't sitting down anymore. He's been back less than ten minutes after driving through the night, yet it seems he can't stay still. Reminds me of how I've been for the past six days while he was away, but mine was a different, more productive kind of movement. Bobby and I dove into anything and everything we could find. We made phone calls, read tons of books, and I even attempted a few protection spells for Dean's benefit when Bobby was either getting a quick nap in or digging in his garage for more books. Bobby might've been willing to help me with them, but I wasn't sure, so I didn't ask. Seemed better to just do it, but so far there have been no signs that they've worked. No signs they haven't though.

"So did you find out why she was talking to demons? I mean, did she have any information at all?" I ask, trying not to get my hopes up. But the fact is, we need answers. We needed answers last _week_.

Dean's not looking at either of us. He's pacing the short length of Bobby's study, dodging books and stray papers like he's trying to avoid cracks in a sidewalk. Attention totally focused on the task, up on his tiptoes with a beer in his hand. Seems he always has a beer in his hand. But he's holding onto something else, too. I can only hope it's not as damaging as the alcohol, but I can't tell because he still won't look at me. He's just walking and spinning and walking again, around and around in circles.

"Dean?" I say, just as he narrowly avoids stepping on a book titled _Theories of Immortality_. He glances up at me, as if he'd forgotten I was there, eyes sweeping over to Bobby next, who looks back at him imploringly.

"I uh…" Dean hesitates, turning his back to us. "Bela gave the Colt to the demons. She's been working with them…or _for_ them, I guess."

"And why in the hell would she do that?" Bobby asked. "I mean she ain't a bucket of sunshine or nothin', but I still can't understand why she'd willingly give up a gun like that."

"See, that's the thing," Dean continues. I can hear a slight lilt in his voice, almost like he's smiling while he talks, but I still can't see his face. Either way, it doesn't sound like the right kind of smile. "Bela made a deal with a demon ten years ago. A crossroads deal. Her bill was coming due and she got scared; started trying to get out of it. The demon who owns her soul said that if she got the Colt for them, they'd reconsider. So she handed it over."

"And…?" Bobby prompts.

Dean shrugs. "And they're demons. So they lied."

I hesitate. "So she's…"

"She's dead," Dean confirms, finally turning to look at Bobby and me. His expression is completely unreadable, eyes blank. He walks out of the room. Comes back with another beer. Bobby and I share a look.

"Dean…" I say, drawing out his name while I decide what to say next. I don't get a chance to though, because Dean speaks up again.

"Lilith."

"What?" Bobby and I both ask.

"Lilith," he repeats, tapping his beer against his leg to the rhythm of a song the rest of us can't hear. "That's who owns my soul. She owned Bela's too, keeps all the contracts. Bela told me before…"

Dean inclines his head, urging us to fill in the blank on our own.

"Okay, so this is good," I say, and Dean scoffs.

"No really," I insist. "This is good. We've got Ruby's knife and just enough time to figure out where Lilith's hiding out so we can go after her and finish this. We've got a direction now. We've got a plan."

"So what _is_ this brilliant plan, exactly?" Dean asks. He's stopped pacing finally and is now leaning back against Bobby's bookshelf, arms crossed with his beer hanging in one hand. He rolls that wrist as he talks, punctuating his words with the disjointed movements of the bottle. "What, we just roll in with one little knife and try to take on one of the most powerful demons we've ever come across? Oh, and did you also forget that this is the same Lilith who wants you skewered and deep-fried?"

"First of all, if you skewer something, you're probably not gonna deep-fry it. That'd be weird. You'd just grill it or something. And secondly: So what?" I reply.

Dean blinks at me, vexed. "What?"

"I said, 'so what,'" I repeat. "Lilith's out there looking for me regardless. So if we take her down, you don't go to Hell and I don't have a target on my back anymore. It's a win-win."

"Your brother makes a valid point, Dean," Bobby cuts in, rising from his chair. I follow suit. "Now that we've got the name, I can do a location spell to find out where Lilith's holed up; we'd head out by morning."

Dean is already shaking his head before Bobby's done speaking. He sets his beer down behind him and pushes his palms into the bookshelf he's leaning against and lets it take his weight, falling back onto his heels. The wood creaks under the pressure and he pushes off from it altogether a moment later, bringing his hands in front of him. There are small indents along his palms where they dug into the wood. "Great," he says sarcastically. "That still leaves us with the small issue of how on earth we can kill a demon like Lilith with a knife like Ruby's. I'm sorry, but I just don't see it happening."

"So we summon Ruby, ask her to help," I shrug, watching Dean's shoulders tense and roll.

"No, Sam."

"Why the hell not? She's probably gonna show up anyway to get her knife back. Surprised she hasn't already seeing as she was supposed to come back the day after she gave it to us. We can ask her then. It's the smartest option we have and you know it," I say, jabbing a finger in my brother's direction for added effect. He rolls his eyes and picks up his beer.

"Sam, she can't find us with the hex bags, so there's no way she'll show up. Which means we can keep the knife. Which means we don't need her."

"Dean…"

"Sam, this isn't up for debate, and it doesn't matter anyway because…" Dean is cut off by a stunted pounding on Bobby's front door. All three of us freeze.

"Expecting someone?" Dean hisses, bottle suddenly replaced with the gun that was stuffed into the back of his jeans a few seconds ago. Bobby shakes his head, and we all move silently towards the door, Bobby and I picking up our guns along the way. Dean takes the lead, slowly leaning in until he can see through the peephole. He shoves back from the door a second later with a resigned sigh.

"Speak of the devil," he growls, unfastening Bobby's extra locks and swinging the door open.

It's Ruby.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading!**


	11. Chapter 11

"You gonna let me in or what?" Ruby asks, tapping her foot on Bobby's porch like some impatient princess, arms crossed over her chest. Dean snorts and cocks his head to the side.

"I don't know," he replies, waving his foot teasingly over the salt-line. "You gonna tell us how the hell you found us?"

"Well let's see now," Ruby muses, putting a finger to her lips in mock contemplation. "You've got three days until the hounds come to play, you've got no real plan, and you've got a rickety old man who seems to at least have _some_ idea of what he's talking about and has, for some reason, chosen to involve himself with you two airheads. But my gosh, where on earth could you be?"

Bobby stiffens and looks like he's about to say something, so I chime in first.

"Alright, we get it," I grumble, nudging Dean to the side of the door and disrupting the line of salt with the toe of my shoe. Dean shoots me a menacing glare, but allows Ruby to push past him and waltz her way into the center of Bobby's kitchen. She spins to face us, her mouth set in the familiar half-smirk she always seems to wear. I'd never tell Dean, but sometimes he wears a very similar expression.

"So, where's my knife?" she demands.

"We need it," I reply, keeping my voice decidedly calm. Suddenly, I can see right through her. "And you know that. Just like you've always known who owns Dean's soul. Isn't that right?"

Ruby shrugs, unaffected by my accusation. Dean shoots her a dangerous glare but doesn't say anything. "If I had told you right away, you'd already be dead," she says. "And please don't tell me you're planning on doing what I think you're doing."

"Fine. We won't," Dean barks.

Ruby leans back against the kitchen table and regards the three of us with equal parts amusement and disbelief.

"Seriously?" she says after a moment. "You think you'll just march on over to Lilith and shove a little butter knife into her spleen while she sits there and takes it? There's no way you'll come out of this alive if that's your only weapon."

"Yeah? So what do you suggest then?" I ask, taking a step towards her.

"Stay the hell away," Ruby answers, all signs of teasing suddenly gone. She locks eyes with me. "I'm serious, Sam. There's no way you're beating Lilith as is, so you may as well give up now. Before all three of you die, instead of just Dean."

I exhale in a huff, my entire body tensing at her words. "You…"

"Well this has been lovely," Dean interrupts, clapping his hands together with one loud smack. Every word drips with sarcasm. "Truly Ruby, you have been an invaluable resource and you will be sorely missed. Don't let the door hit you on the way out. Or actually…please do."

"Wait," I urge, even though Ruby hasn't moved an inch. "What did you mean by 'as is'? You said we couldn't beat Lilith _as is_. What does that mean?"

"Sam…" both Dean and Bobby warn at the same time. I ignore them, keeping my gaze locked on the demon in front of me. She regards me with something close to sympathy, her next words softer and gentler than before.

"Look, you've got something inside of you, Sam. You have the power to make this all go away with the flick of a wrist. You _can_ save your brother."

"How?" I ask. Bobby and Dean are silent behind me, though I can feel them alternating between shooting glances at each other and shooting menacing glares at Ruby. Again, I ignore them. I've heard the magic words. I'm not sure why I believe them when they're spilling from a demon's mouth, especially a demon that's been lying to us about who owns my brother's soul, but somehow I know she's right. And I know what she's going to say before she says it, her words only confirming what deep down, I've already understood.

"Azazel's influence hasn't left you, Sam. It's just dormant," she explains. "I can teach you how to channel it, how to take down Lilith with barely any effort. It _is_ possible. And I know you know that. I know you can feel it."

This time, Dean's glare is directed at the back of my skull.

"She's scared of you, and this is your chance," Ruby continues. "But you have to listen to me. You have to do exactly as I say."

"Right," Dean pipes up. "Let's listen to the shady demon bitch in the room. Doesn't sound like a trick at all."

"As I've already explained countless times, this _demon_ wants Lilith dead," Ruby fumes. She's still leaning back against Bobby's table, but her hands are curled into small fists, and her eyes are narrowed; glinting dangerously. "If you've got your own death wish, then fine, but don't get your brother killed too just because you're too stubborn to ask for my help."

Dean is still standing behind me, but after Ruby's words he grabs my arm and pulls me back with him, hauling me away from the kitchen. A little caught off guard, I let my brother manhandle me into the next room, absently thinking about what an awkward situation we've left for Bobby and Ruby.

"Sam, no," Dean says as he turns to face me, dropping his hold on my arm. "You're not even contemplating this, right? I mean, you're not even thinking…"

"Why the hell not, Dean?" I almost yell, throwing my hands up. "We've got three days to prepare, and if what Ruby says is true, then I can take down Lilith with little to no risk involved."

"Oh sure, because Ruby's telling the truth here. Obviously."

"Yeah. She is." It's a whisper.

"And how on earth would you know that?" Dean's answer is just as hushed.

"Because I can feel it, Dean."

That stops him short. Dean looks at me in the way that I hate. He doesn't know he does it; those big imploring eyes that ask _what's wrong with you? Why are you so different?_ And _who are you?_ all at the same time. It makes me sick. Gives me the distinct urge to slap that look right off his face. Instead, I just keep talking, hoping he'll listen.

"Look, I know what I am. There's no getting away from that. So why not _use_ it? Why not take this…whatever _this_ is, and use it to bring down Lilith? Use it to save your life? If I can do that, I don't care about anything else. If I can save you, we'll have time to figure out the rest."

"It's not worth it, Sam." Dean shakes his head. "It's not worth the risk. You understand what she's asking? She's asking you to unlock this part of you that's…that's…"

"Demonic? Evil? Dean, I don't care," I interrupt, watching my big brother's face grow pale. "This is worth it, you understand me? You're worth it."

Dean drops his head, almost until his chin rests on his chest. My own eyes stay locked on him, the conviction behind my words pulsing out from the very core of me. I hope Dean feels it. I hope he finally understands that it goes both ways; that I can't live with him gone either. He raises his eyes back to mine a moment later, and I don't see what I thought I would. His expression is cold, the hard planes of his face pushed out and accentuated by shadows that crawl along the walls with the beginnings of sunset.

"We keep making these deals, these sacrifices, and look at where we end up. Every single time," he says. "So no, it's not worth it. I'd rather try our luck with the goddamn knife." He walks back into the kitchen before I can even try to formulate a response.

"Alright, time for you to go," I hear Dean's words, slightly muffled by the wall between us and no doubt directed at Ruby. I follow the sound into the kitchen just in time to receive a particularly nasty look from Ruby who still stands by the kitchen table, hands now on her hips. She inclines her head toward me, waiting for my refute, and when it doesn't come, she just shakes her head, the half-smirk back in place.

"I'd wish you good luck, but you'll need a helluva lot more than that," she snarls. "And I actually don't give a shit either way." Her next words are directed only to me.

"I tried. I really did." And then she's gone.

None of us speak for a long time after, almost as if we're just waiting for the sun to set. Dean settles back down in Bobby's office, blearily flipping through more books while Bobby does the same from the opposite corner of the room. I stay in the living room with my own collection of research, unwilling to look at my brother right now. We have no time. We have no options. Dean just threw away the best (and maybe the only) chance we had.

A little while later, Dean walks out the door.

* * *

ooooooooooooooooooooooooo00O00ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

* * *

Dean comes back an hour later and wordlessly drops a salad in front of me. He walks back into the study with another bag of food for Bobby and then returns to settle onto the couch next to mine, flipping on the TV. His own meal remains relatively untouched as he stares at the static wafting out from the old TV set. Intent on my research, I try not to let the buzz of light and sound distract me, too stubborn to either move to another room or ask him to shut it off. I think Dean's managed to find an old Western somehow, but I'm not paying enough attention to the fuzzy picture to really identify it. Dean, on the other hand, seems engrossed, watching blurry heroes scramble across the screen, his left fist curling and uncurling like he's trying to crack an egg. I remember learning about that in sixth grade science class. No matter how much pressure you apply, you can't crack an egg by squeezing it in one hand. Doesn't stop Dean from trying, but it seems even his invisible egg is immune. Eventually, he gives up, his hand relaxing. The rest of his body does too, after a while. I watch him slump lower and lower into the lumpy cushions as the night wears on until he's finally unconscious, eyelids fluttering closed after several attempts to keep them open.

I wait a few more minutes before pulling a blanket over him and settling back down onto my own couch. I don't want to risk waking him by turning on a light, and in all honesty, I'm completely exhausted. I could use a few hours of oblivion.

I get one and a half before Dean lunges out of bed, hand clasped around the knife he always has somewhere on him. I can't hear the screaming he no doubt does, but I can hear my brother panting hard, his eyes roaming around the dark room as he tries to orient himself. I think about feigning sleep for a second before rolling over and turning on the lamp that sits in between us. Dean is sitting up against the back of his couch, both hands digging into his temples, his knife on his lap. He tenses when the light comes on, whips his head around to stare at me.

"I'm fine," he says, as if on autopilot. "Just the goddamn banshee." His hands come down to pick up the knife, running his fingers over the sharp blade. He flinches at something else I can't hear, squeezing his eyes shut until it passes. Then he looks at me again.

"You can go back to sleep," he says. I don't move, and his eyes soften. He shoots me a weary smile and rubs a hand down over his face.

"It's okay, Sammy," he insists, settling back down into the cushions and turning away from me.

For the first time in my life, I don't believe him.

* * *

 **A note to Guest reviewer Jain: I certainly hope that you, yourself are a writer, because your reviews are really eloquently written, and they never cease to put a smile on my face. You have some great insights into this story and the characters themselves, and I'm so glad you choose to share them with me. Thank you!**

 **And as always, thank you to all of you who have been reading and reviewing. I really love hearing your thoughts, and I can't wait for you to see what comes next!**


	12. Chapter 12

**I'm a day late with this one but hopefully not a dollar short.**

* * *

It's uncharacteristic of me these days, but I manage to wake up peacefully enough that I can still pretend to be asleep, which I decide might be a good decision, at least at first. Dean's couch is empty, and I can hear the low murmur of voices not too far away. They seem to be coming from the kitchen, and I strain my ears to listen to my brother and Bobby.

"…to see that," Dean is saying, his voice low, almost gravelly. It sounds as if he hasn't slept. "I mean…those things _tore_ _her_ _apart_. Right in front of me. And it's not…I mean I couldn't do anything, you know? And I didn't even like the girl. Total bitch actually, but I still feel guilty about it. Can you imagine Sam? If he had to…I can't…"

"So what's your plan then?" Bobby cuts in, his tone matching my brother's in volume, but carrying a steady undercurrent of anger. "Just run off in the middle of the night so he doesn't have to see it? Don't you think that'd be about a thousand times worse for the kid? And, by the way, who the hell told you to give up just yet? We've got Lilith in our sights. New Harmony, Indiana according to the spell I worked last night. We've got the knife. It's worth a shot."

"Bobby…" I can't make out the rest of Dean's words, his tone dipping even lower, almost as if he subconsciously realizes I'm awake. He probably does. Slowly, I roll out the kinks in my neck and find my way to my feet, shuffling into the kitchen. Bobby and Dean are standing on opposite sides of the room, both with arms crossed over their chests. Dean's jaw rolls when he notices my entrance, but he doesn't acknowledge me, just continues staring at the older man across from him.

"Morning…" I greet them tentatively, trying to dispel a little tension. Doesn't work.

"Hi, Sam," Bobby grumbles, nodding in my direction but keeping his eyes locked on my brother.

"What's going on?" I ask.

"Nothing," Dean says. "We were just…discussing options."

Bobby snorts. "Your brother here seems to think that the only one he has involves running off in the middle of the night to spare us the sight of him being ripped to shreds."

Dean and I both flinch, and I turn my attention fully back to my brother. His arms are still crossed and his jaw is still working, but now he's staring at the floor.

"Dean." I wait for him to look at me. "You can't give up. Bobby says he found Lilith, right?" I wait for Bobby to nod his confirmation. "Good, so we go."

"Sam…" Dean sighs.

"So we go," I continue as if I haven't heard him. "And we take out a demon, just like any other job. And we save your life in the process. And you don't get to say no. Because if you do anything as stupid as taking off, then I'll just go find Lilith alone."

"Sam…" Dean tries again.

"Dean, just stop. Stop trying to be a martyr when there's a solution a few states over. We'll leave in a few hours. Pack your stuff if it isn't already packed."

Dean's lip curls at the accusation, but I don't have time to try and smooth things over. I turn and walk out the front door. Dean won't think this is strange. When we were younger, Dad would drop us at Bobby's sometimes while he went on a hunt, and after a few weeks of being cooped up, we'd both get restless. That was usually about the time the fighting started. Bobby always used to tell us that whenever we felt like we were going to explode, we could walk outside, and we'd have one of three options: take a few deep breaths and come back inside, go for a run, or beat the shit out of one of the old, unfixable cars out in the yard. Needless to say, Bobby had to start limiting us to five swings with a crowbar each before we mangled them all. This time though, as much as I might like to right about now, I'm not out here to destroy a car.

* * *

ooooooooooooooooooooooooo000O000ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

* * *

Ruby picks up on the first ring.

"Knew you'd call," she says, and I can almost see her familiar smirk through the phone.

"Can I meet you?" I ask, skipping the formalities. It's lucky we're low on some supplies, so I'll have a viable excuse for disappearing for a few hours. We'll need to bring every weapon we have to face off against Lilith. And that includes me.

I hang up a few seconds later and head back inside to find Dean's keys. He hands them over distractedly, too busy looking for one of his shirts (which I'm pretty sure I threw out a few weeks ago because it had too much blood caked into it) to really focus on my fabricated excuse for leaving. He just nods. I think maybe it's finally starting to hit him. That if we don't do something, and do it fast, he's a goner. At least, I hope that's what he's thinking. Not that I want him to be scared or panicked, but it's better than the passive indifference or the determined acceptance of late.

The drive to the old, abandoned restaurant is short, but it's still too much time to think about what I'm doing. I believe every word I said to Dean. He _is_ worth whatever this will do to me, but that doesn't mean I'm not worried about it. Terrified, really. But it's okay. As long as Dean can stay by my side when it's all over, we can figure it out together. Ruby greets me inside the rundown building and pulls me with her into the recesses of what used to be the dining area. There's not much left of it now, just a big empty space with a counter near the back. If I look closely enough, I can see the frayed edges of what remains of the menu board, a faded white background with red text and what might've at one point been appetizing pictures for a few of the offered meals.

"Okay," Ruby says, pulling my attention back to her. "How much time do you have before Dean gets suspicious?"

"Not long," I say. "I told him I was going to pick up a few things. There's a chance he already realizes what I'm up to…or if he doesn't, he'll figure it out soon enough."

"Alright, we'll work with whatever time we have."

"Ruby?"

Ruby inclines her head toward me, eyebrows raised.

"Is this…what we're doing…how different will I be when it's done? Are we talking permanent damage or…?"

"Honestly Sam, I don't know. I'm a demon, so my perception on damage is a bit…damaged." She smiles at her own joke. "What I do know is that if we do this right, you can beat Lilith. You can make this world a whole lot better for a ton of people living in it. And you can save your brother."

I nod. Ruby waits. I think she knows her answer wouldn't change anything anyway.

"Okay," I say after a moment. "What do I have to do?"

* * *

 **Bit of a shorter chapter this week, but we'll get to the good stuff soon enough.**

 **Jain: I'm so glad you like the twists here that somehow still lead to similar emotions and acts of desperation—it's interesting to notice that despite the differences in my story, like you said, a lot of those truths that existed in season 3 remain here. And that's a bummer, because I think you'd make a great writer. But yes, as always, I appreciate it!**

 **Thank you to all of you for sticking around this long reading and reviewing—more to come next week!**


	13. Chapter 13

**Happy Thursday everyone!**

* * *

"Did you get everything?" Dean asks me as soon as I walk through Bobby's front door. He's screwing the cap onto an enormous jug of holy water, a jeweled rosary dangling off from it. There are bags full of what I'm assuming are weapons and ammunition sitting on the kitchen table, at which Bobby is currently sitting, cleaning his shotgun.

"Yeah, got it all" I nod, dropping my own bag of supplies (retrieved by Ruby in a matter of seconds) onto the counter.

"Food?" Is Dean's next question.

Shit. Food had been the last thing on my mind.

"I uh…I figured we'd just pick some up on the way," I say. To my relief, Dean just nods, too busy studying the map of New Harmony that's laid out next to the weapon bags to see my expression. It's just nervous habit. We know where we're going, but Dad always told us to plan out all of our options; to always memorize locations of the nearest hospitals, police stations, and, believe it or not, 24-hour gyms. Plus, he insisted on mapping out at least five escape routes in case things ever went seriously wrong. That's what Dean appears to be doing now, fingers trailing over the crumpled paper on the table in front of him, whispering street names to himself.

He's scared.

It's as obvious to me as if he had screamed the words.

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ooooooooooooooooooooooooo00000OO0000000ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

* * *

We hit the road half an hour later, Bobby trailing behind us in his truck. The stars are out by the time we hit the highway, and I notice Dean's gaze flickering up at the sky more often than the actual road in front of us.

"You okay?" I ask, wondering why I bother.

"I think I might be," he says, forehead crinkled with sincerity. The answer and the tone both surprise me. I was expecting more bravado. I was expecting the strong and stoic default to make an appearance for these final hours. Of course, there's nothing final about them, at least not for Dean. I will make sure of it.

"Yeah?" I ask.

"Yeah," he nods. "You know, I wouldn't change it. Even now, even if we don't end up winning. All I ever wanted was to help people. It's what I'm good at. And we did a lot of it. We really did. But none of that ever mattered if I couldn't save _you_. You were always at the top of the list, Sammy. And I'm proud of you. I'm proud you never gave in…"

"Dean…" I try to cut him off. I don't want to hear words I don't deserve. I don't want him to give me this big, final speech because he's scared and I'm terrified and the words just make it even more real. But he won't stop.

"No just…just let me say this," he says. He's not looking at me now. I imagine if he did, he wouldn't be able to keep talking. I know I can't. "Everything…Yellow Eyes and Ruby and all that other crap…you never let it in. You just kept going, kept on shoving past it until you extinguished it completely. And I'm so glad, Sammy. I just…yeah. That's what I wanted to say. That's…you know everything else." He smiles, big and wide and genuine. My big brother. Proud as ever.

My stomach rolls.

I just nod, the lump in my throat making it impossible to talk for a while. So we don't. And when we do, it's Dean who starts it up again, making some comment about how apparently nobody understands the point of the left lane on a goddamn freeway.

After that, we talk about everything.

We are careening toward the unknown, and it looks like every other road, but it is anything but. So before it ends, before the asphalt runs out and we get to New Harmony and whatever might await us there, I want to squeeze everything I can out of these last few hours. I want my brother's laughter to still be ringing in my ears as we face off against Lilith. I think Dean feels the same way, because he can't seem to stop talking. He tells me about Dad, some stories I've never heard because I was always too young or the time was never right. He even talks about Mom, briefly. Says she used to make these delicious half-brownie, half-cookie things that the two of us should totally make the next time we find an empty house with a halfway decent kitchen. And then Bon Jovi's "Dead or Alive" comes on the radio and I find myself belting out the words alongside my brother, our off-key voices filling up the interior of the Impala and drifting out into the midnight sky.

Midnight.

It's midnight now.

We have twenty-four hours.

* * *

 **Okay I know this is a super short chapter but try as I might to figure out how to make it longer, it just didn't work out. Guess that just means more for next time =P. As always, thank you all so much for your amazing reviews, and thanks for reading!**


	14. Chapter 14

**It's Thursday! Glad you're still here =).**

* * *

Dean, Bobby, and I get two motel rooms and three beds and a few hours of sleep in a tiny town that is still several hours from New Harmony. We still have Ruby's hex-bags, so Lilith doesn't know we're coming yet, but there's no way we'd risk laying our heads down with her being just a few miles away. Regardless of distance, the sleep is restless for all three of us, especially with Dean's banshee interruption around 3 in the morning. He doesn't shoot out of bed this time, most likely because he's waiting for it, but I feel him tense all the way from my own bed. I'd been waiting for it too. It seems to last longer than usual this time, that hollow scream I cannot hear, and I wait until Dean's breathing evens out again before I let myself sink back into my own pillow.

Bobby bangs on our door late in the afternoon. We're in no rush to get going yet, figuring that our best shot is to wait until dark if we want to keep human casualties to a minimum and have a better chance of catching Lilith off-guard. Less people out and about in whatever neighborhood she's holed up in means less chance they'll be collateral damage. Despite the time, Bobby's arrival brings with it a huge bag of breakfast food for the three of us to share- pancakes, waffles, omelets and fresh fruit. We spread it out across our beds. Bobby just insists he grabbed a ton of stuff because he doesn't know what we like.

We gladly accept that bullshit and dig in.

"How you feeling Dean?" Bobby asks after we've polished off our meal, the remnants of it stuffed back into the plastic bag and shoved into a corner of the room.

"M' fine," Dean says, finishing the last bite of what has to be his third waffle. "Just ready to get it done."

"Yeah?" Bobby presses, eyebrow raised. "No hallucinations yet?"

"What?" we both ask at the same time.

"Aww don't bullshit me, boy. We gotta know how bad it is, make sure you can still function well enough to, as you said, 'get it done.'"

I watch Dean carefully, gauging his expression as he answers. I feel stupid for being so oblivious.

"I…they're not that bad. I know what's real, if that's what you're asking. Doesn't change anything."

"Hallucinations?" I chime in finally, needing more of an explanation.

Bobby turns his attention to me, adjusting his baseball cap as he talks. "Gist of it is, when someone's soul is damned to Hell, they start catching glimpses of it," he says. "Your brother here hasn't got much time left on his ticket, so they'll start to get worse and worse until…"

"Yeah, got it," I nod, catching Dean's eye. His lip quirks; his little half-smile of reassurance.

"Probably just means we should get moving," he says, tossing his napkin into the garbage can across from him and standing up. We pack, but don't hit the road again for a few hours, Bobby trailing behind us once again. This pace is killing me. It's like we're torturing ourselves on purpose, dragging the whole thing out longer than it needs to be. I understand the reasoning, of course. The need to be well rested, to wait for dark, to formulate a plan and discuss options as we pack. There's no room for error here. This is a big gun, and she'll have reinforcements. But I'm restless. On edge. My heart seems to be pumping more viciously than usual; the same pace, but a with greater intensity.

* * *

ooooooooooooooooooooo00O00oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

* * *

Despite my eagerness to tear into Lilith, the drive seems just a little too short this time, filled with more tension and uneasy anticipation than anything else. Before I know it, we've rolled to a stop two streets over from the house that Lilith is supposedly inhabiting. When I'd met with Ruby, she'd said something about Lilith being on shore leave, and me not wanting to know what the hell that meant. I'd had a feeling she'd been right.

I take a deep breath. "Alright. You ready?" I ask, reaching for the door. We climb slowly out of the car and make our way to the trunk. Bobby meets us there, bag slung over his shoulder and shotgun in his hand. The sun has almost finished its descent for the day, the last few beams of light pushing our shadows out across the pavement as we gather what we need and start walking; steady, quiet steps. Dean has Ruby's knife, and he's flexing his hand against it as we move, open and closed, open and closed. The three of us breathe together, everything synchronized, crouching lower as we cross the first street, then the second, cutting across a stranger's lawn and pausing briefly in the shadows cast by the looming structure of their garage. I begin to push forward again, but Dean stops me.

"Wait." he hisses, grabbing my arm and holding up an index finger. He points it in the direction of a man just visible from across the street. He's sitting in front of the window of his home, staring out into his empty yard. He doesn't move.

"Demon," Dean says.

"How do you know?" I ask.

"Part of the hallucinations, I'd assume," Bobby whispers.

Dean nods. "There's more," he says, pointing them out. Six that we can see. Probably more that we can't. We take them out one at a time using the most cliché distraction methods. Doesn't matter though- they work, and Ruby's knife does the rest, quickly and quietly. The three of us make it to the front door, breathing a little harder but still breathing. Small victories. The bigger victory would be if Lilith hasn't realized we're here yet. In fact, that would be a goddamn miracle. As it is, we're crouched low on the front porch of what was never supposed to be anything more than a normal suburban home. There are two generic potted plants resting at the base of the stairs on either side, thick green tufts of grass that stick out like stray hairs. One of the plants is adorned with a splash of red; the result of one of our recent demon kills. But the blood reminds me that we've killed a person too. Just a normal guy going about his day. Thinking about it makes me sick, so I usually don't. Neither does Dean. I can tell his mind is somewhere else right now, because he's far too calm. He stands beside me on the porch and scans the empty lawn, hand still steady around the demon knife now wet with blood. Some of it dribbles lazily onto his fingers. He doesn't notice.

He's too busy watching the lawn, all signs of tranquility leaving him. Because it's not empty anymore. It's quickly filling up with people. They blink, and their eyes are thick pools of black that should be expressionless but are instead somehow simultaneously filled with seething hatred and gleeful anticipation. They advance slowly, as if knowing that it won't make a difference how long it takes them to reach the three hunters standing frozen on the porch. Because we're trapped with no place to go besides inside the house that holds the most dangerous demon we've ever faced. And the demons outside make it evident: she definitely knows we're here.

"You two gotta go," Bobby says, pushing Dean and me roughly behind him, right up against the door. Caught off guard, I wince as the door's knocker is pressed into my spine, Dean's weight holding me in place as he stumbles back along with me.

"Like hell. We're not leaving you," Dean snaps, pushing off from where he'd collided with me so that I can breathe again. He's taken to glaring at Bobby rather than continue to watch the crowd of advancing demons, shotgun held in a suffocating grip.

"I ain't askin'!" Bobby roars. "This is Lilith we're talking about here. _Lilith_. The big kahuna. You can't drop the ball now. You get in there and you take her down, and I'll stay back and hold down the fort. I got some tricks up my sleeve, alright? Just trust me. Go!"

Bobby gives Dean another forceful shove back into me on the last word, his eyes wide with a mixture of panic and determination as the demons stalk closer, grinning now.

"Bobby…" I say, heart sinking as I see the choice we have to make, the reason we're here in the first place. Lilith is so _close_.

"Go. Now," Bobby yells again, and this time he takes three quick strides backward, opens the door with a violent twist, and pushes us into the house. We barely get another glance at the man who has been like a father to us before he slams the door in our faces, leaving us standing inside the entryway.


	15. Chapter 15

There is a body on the ground in front of us.

Dean stumbles over it and catches himself quickly before motioning for me to follow after him up the staircase. I try not to notice the details; the wrinkled face or the bony fingers, but it sticks in my mind as I step carefully over the corpse and make my way to the stairs, Dean just a few feet in front of me. We drift through the halls like the ghosts we've haunted our entire lives, weapons drawn, trying not to pay attention to the smiling family portraits on the walls or the modest artwork that made this house into something more before demons tore it apart.

Most of the rooms are empty, and the ones that are not are filled with bodies neither of us can look at. They were a big family, apparently.

Downstairs is next, and Dean still leads the way, though every instinct in me wants to push him behind me, protect him from the danger that no doubt lurks around the corner. And suddenly I can _feel_ it. I can feel _her_. It is the ugliest of dread, the deepest, dirtiest pit of evil I have ever experienced, and it pushes its way inside my head, originating from behind the walls of the kitchen, the one Dean is about to walk through. He is behind me before I even fully decide I want him there, and he seems just as shocked as I am, stumbling backwards a few steps before shooting me a look that is somewhere between confused and angry. I put a finger to my lips and incline my head in the direction of the kitchen.

"She's in there," I mouth, and Dean understands.

The door to the kitchen begins to sway back and forth, one of those old-fashioned swinging white doors in all the sitcoms we used to watch on scratchy motel cable. Dean and I freeze, unable to do much but watch until the door swings wide enough to reveal the girl standing on the other side, her once-delicate features twisted into a savage grin.

"Won't you come in?" she chimes, her voice light and sweet, vocal chords dipped in sugar. Dean barely hesitates, just pushes right past me and rushes at the demon before I can stop him, Ruby's knife grasped tight in his hand. Lilith stops smiling and scrunches her nose, whips her head to the side. Dean's body follows the movement, sailing into the far wall next to the oven, his head colliding with its handle before he falls, limp and motionless onto the tiles.

"Dean!" I yell, still frozen motionless in the doorway of the kitchen. The young girl in front of me starts smiling again and begins pacing, as if drawing out an imaginary line between me and my unconscious brother. She can't be more than sixteen.

"Relax Sam, he's fine. No more brain damage than usual," she says in that sugary-sweet voice. "I promise, I just want to talk."

"Talk about what?" I growl, my body tensing as I step forward to better assess the room. Dean is sprawled against the far wall, and besides Lilith, there is a small counter that separates us from one another, a bowl of rotting fruit resting in the middle. Another counter winds its way around the room to my left, and there is a wooden knife holder just before the sink, several knife handles sticking out. Lilith is smiling again, her eyes catching mine as they finally swing back around to find her, drumming her fingers against the smaller counter.

"About you, Sam. About what your options are," she says.

"Options?" I snarl, trying to think of what my next move is. Ruby's knife is a few inches away from Dean, having flown from his hand when he fell. It's too far for me to reach it before she does.

"Yes," Lilith continues, reaching back to pick up one of the rotting apples from its bowl. She tosses it lightly into the air and catches it again. It shrivels beneath her touch, withering to black. "I'm guessing you've heard some things about me that are no longer true. For example, the fact that I wanted you dead for a while."

"What?" I stare at the demon as she squeezes the apple in her hand, turning it to dust. She lets the ashes fall, and they scatter onto the white tiles of the floor at her feet.

"You see, I've been thinking," Lilith continues. "You were Azazel's favorite for a reason, right? And though your brother here ended up killing him, perhaps the crazy bastard was onto something. Obviously, there's no way you're fit to _lead_ an army, but a boy with your talents could be of some use to me, from time to time."

I laugh, low and humorless. Her eyebrows raise. I spit my next words. "You want me to work for you? You want me to become one of your little henchman in some sad excuse for a demon army? Yeah. I think I'll just kill you instead."

It is Lilith who laughs now, a tinkling of bells that spills from her thin lips. "Sam Winchester, though you possess certain gifts, you should not mistake them for a power that trumps my own. Do you not understand that I am the First of my kind; the one who began it all? If you choose this path, it will not end well for you. Your brother's fate is sealed, but yours can be changed. Join me. Become what Azazel has molded you to be."

"I don't think so," I say, on autopilot. My mind is somewhere else entirely and I breathe deep, focusing on what Ruby taught me. I feel the darkness inside me, the part of me I'd left buried for so long. Now, I grip onto it tightly, pulling it slowly back up to the surface as I begin pacing in front of Lilith, my fists curled at my sides. I can sense the moment I have a hold on it, the moment this thing inside of me has been shaken loose, quivering its way through every muscle. I smile and stop pacing, lining myself up directly in front of Lilith.

"But I gotta say, I'm kind of glad that Yellow-Eyed son of a bitch gave me everything I'd need to kill you," I taunt. "His mistake."

I lower my head and close my eyes, Azazel's so-called gift gathering into the center of my chest, filling me up from the inside. In the next moment, I raise my head, shoving my hands in front of me and pushing with everything I have, pushing the darkest tendrils of my influence at the demon in front of me. Lilith screams and pushes back, her own power driving against me in a rush of white heat as her eyes roll back into her head, replaced with a milky film. The two forces meet in the middle with a tremendous blast that slams me into the wall. Somehow, I stay on my feet, feeling a thick trickle of blood dripping from my nose and tickling at my lips. Lilith has been affected too, and she is now sprawled against the same wall as Dean, lying just a few feet from him. He is blinking slowly, just coming back to consciousness, his half-hooded eyes meeting mine. I blink at him and nod once, directing my attention to Ruby's knife. Again, he understands.

I dive at the same time he slides the knife across the floor to me, my fingers grasping for the handle as I turn on Lilith, still slumped against the wall. Her eyes widen in what I can only imagine is fear, but before I can slam the knife into her, she is screaming, a high-pitched shriek that expels a thick plume of demon smoke, her host body shuddering and then slumping to the floor, motionless.

* * *

oooooooooooooooooooooo00O00oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

* * *

Dean groans and lets out a few pained breaths, trying to push himself clumsily back to his feet. I help him up and he clutches onto my jacket, eyeing me in disbelief.

"What happened?" he demands once he's found his balance again. I am about to try to formulate an answer, but before I can, he stiffens beside me, his eyes widening the same way Lilith's had.

"Hellhound," he whispers.

"Where?" I ask.

"Not here yet, but coming," he replies. "I can hear it."

I freeze, listening for the howling I know I will not be able to hear. Instead, I hear something else, a clamoring coming from just outside the kitchen door. Dean and I brace ourselves, and I hold Ruby's knife at the ready.

Bobby stumbles through the door a moment later, bloody but alive, and carrying two shotguns.

"Bobby!" I exclaim, meeting him halfway and stumbling into a tight embrace. Dean follows after, wrapping his arms around the older man before pulling back to examine him more closely.

"How the hell did you get away from all those demons?" he asks.

"Holy water in the sprinklers," Bobby shrugs. And now they're all gone. Just took off. Does that mean…"

"She's not dead," I cut in, shaking my head. I motion to the young girl whose body Lilith had been possessing. My priority is Dean, so I'd barely remembered she was there, especially considering she hasn't moved or awakened since Lilith left her; probably long dead. Bobby grimaces but nods his head in understanding.

"Guys…" Dean starts to say. He stops, inclines his head.

"Dean, what?" I whisper, crouching low with the knife in front of me.

"They're here," he whispers back.

"Let's go!" Bobby hisses. He pushes one of his shotguns into Dean's hands and then shoves through the swinging door of the kitchen. My brother and I follow, but not until after I grab a box of salt from the pantry. Dean directs Bobby where to shoot, blasting his own holes into the invisible mutts. I can hear their whimpers each time the shots connect, but we're not doing enough damage.

"Front door!" I scream, scattering a thin line of salt between us and the threat I cannot see. We race for the entrance, praying we can make it to the car a few blocks over. There are more supplies there: a huge bag of goofer dust and more salt rounds and holy water. We just need to _make it_ there. Dean flings the front door open and begins to sprint, Bobby and I following close behind, weapons still grasped in our hands as we attempt to fight off the hounds. I try to focus like Ruby taught me, to gather the power I can feel swimming inside of me, but the pieces won't come together like before. Everything is scattered, as if still trying to regroup after the fight with Lilith. I groan in frustration, urging my mind to cooperate and feeling more blood pooling out steadily from my nose as we run, as we sprint for the Impala.

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 **Thank you so much to all of you who read and review each week; it's been great to watch this story unfold and see what you guys think. Believe it or not, we're basically to the end now. Next week's chapter will most likely be the last.**

 **Guest Jain: You are so sweet and I'm almost sorry this story has caused you emotional pain, but in a way I think that also means I've done my job! haha. Again, thank you so much for all of your amazing comments.**

 **See you all next week!**


	16. Chapter 16

**As promised, this will in fact be the final chapter of this story. Thanks so much for following along, and I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

The impact is as crippling as it is unexpected.

One moment I am running, just a few feet behind my brother, and in the next I am on the ground, an uncontrolled yell escaping my lips as I tumble, face impacting with the blacktop. I hear Bobby fall too, farther behind than I had thought, but I can't worry about him right now. I can feel the putrid breath of the hellhound that collided with me. Its full weight is on top of me, jaws snapping at the back of my neck. I roll out from under it as best I can, Ruby's knife still gripped in my hand. And then I start slashing. I have no idea where the thing is aside from the weight I still feel on top of me, but I can hear the dog's vicious snarls and pained whines as I make contact, again and again. Finally, I feel its weight leave me completely, can hear the thud of its motionless body on the ground beside me.

I do not have time to celebrate my victory. I roll onto my knees and whip my head around, searching for Bobby, for Dean. I find Bobby first, holding his shotgun in front of his face to ward off what I can only assume are the snapping jaws of another hellhound. Apparently, we're all fair game now. I run to him, shoving the knife into the space I expect the hellhound to be, and I hear its low howl before it crumples on top of the older hunter, pinning him beneath dead weight. Bobby cries out and starts shoving at the invisible corpse, and I cannot stay to help him. I have to find my brother. I have to find Dean.

I sprint the rest of the way across the street and over the grass, back to where the Impala waits and hopefully, where my brother is now.

Dean is still running.

I can see the Impala in the distance, a familiar black shape that stands out against the streetlights. And I can see Dean, sprinting for that salvation, not bothering to look back at the dogs that I know must be behind him. And suddenly I know they are there indefinitely, because a moment later, Dean crumples to the ground, an agonized cry tearing past his lips.

I watch my brother fall, and I am too far away.

I watch my brother fall, and a high-pitched scream that doesn't belong to either of us pierces the night sky; a banshee's final warning.

And I am sprinting again.

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oooooooooooooooooooooo00O00oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

* * *

The world is red.

My brother is lying on the ground and he is screaming and all I see is red. It spills from his lips and from every corner of his body as invisible hounds tear deep into flesh, ripping at skin and muscle and probably bone too. I cannot see them, but I hear their growls and the sound of their snarling jaws and their long tongues lapping up my brother's blood as it flows out of him.

I see _red_.

I run towards him and I shoot at everything and nothing until I hear whimpering, and then I shoot again, again and again and again and I realize it is not enough. And the moment I have that thought, the very second I understand that shooting them won't do anything, the snarling stops. I _feel_ the life drain out of the hellhounds, can hear the smack of their bodies against the pavement as they hit the ground. Part of me understands what I have done, happening too quickly for the violent beasts to even take their final breaths. I do not care. All I see, all I hear is Dean. Dean, whose screams have tapered off into something almost worse, a low keening that comes from somewhere near the center of his ruined chest. I run to him even as my legs start to give out, diving to my knees and pulling him into me, trying to find a part of him that isn't slicked with blood, something to keep my grip on while he whimpers beneath my searching hands.

He tries to pull in air and I try to keep my composure, but there is so, so much blood and he's dying, my brother is dying. I know this because there are no more hellhounds to kill. They would've sent more if they needed to. I wish they would. I'd make it last this time. I'd twist their broken souls until they howled for a mercy that did not belong to them, and I would enjoy it. The gates of Hell will be next. I will take them all because I can and because...

"S'm…" Dean murmurs, blood bubbling out from his mouth. I tell him to stop talking.

I forget about hellhounds and demons and all the nasty black that now taints my soul. It doesn't matter. None of it matters.

Except for Dean.

I hold onto him like I can glue his insides back together if I squeeze hard enough. I hold onto him like he's the last real thing on earth. I think he might be. He chokes on his own blood until it runs down his cheek and onto the ground, adding to the already steadily growing pool that has soaked the knees of my jeans straight through. I tear my jacket off and press it against him, trying to fix him as he fixed me not so long ago, but there are too many scratches and bites and _holes_ to even know where to start, thick red ooze seeping out of him; a sinking ship hit with too much cannon-fire.

"Please," I say. It's all I can think besides my brother's name. _Please. Please Dean. Please._ I feel his heartbeat stutter against the palm of my hand, and I add another few words to my vocabulary.

"No. Dean, you hold on for me, okay? Hold on. _Please_."

Dean's trembling, almost vibrating, his glazed eyes attempting to stay focused on my face. He tries to move one ruined arm and lets out a moan that would be more like a scream if he could stop sputtering and coughing up blood. The muscles of his forearm are practically spilling out onto the pavement, and still he tries to pull it up from the ground. He lets it drop a second later with a wet thud, but not before I notice where he's pointing.

"Sure is somethin', huh Sammy," Dean whispers, a faint smile touching his bloodied lips, no doubt realizing he's quoting Dad from all those nights together staring up at the sky. He's looking at it now, drinking it all in while I'm trying to do the same, memorizing every freckle and line on my brother's rapidly paling face.

"Little d'per," he grins, this time trying to lift his other hand so he can show me. I barely notice through the thick flood of the moisture that clings to my eyelashes and flows down my cheeks. I think I'm still saying his name, just whispering it over and over again as he shivers and slips slowly away from me.

I hold on tighter.

We stay there together, rocking back and forth. Sinking. That sinking ship, the both of us, my life inseparable from his. He closes his eyes; takes another slow, rattling breath. "Good thing we're all just stardust in the end, huh?" he whispers. They are the clearest words he's spoken.

Dean doesn't breathe again.

My galaxy explodes.

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 **A/N: I mentioned this at the beginning of chapter 1, but if you haven't already, make sure you check out the quote that inspired this story by columnist Caitlin Moran that begins: "At 19, I read a sentence that re-terraformed my head: 'The level of matter in the universe has been constant since the big bang.' In all the aeons we have lost nothing, we have gained nothing- not a speck, not a grain, not a breath,"**

 **Thank you so much for reading and for all of your reviews.**

 **I know this isn't really the ending any of us wanted, but it was probably the second chapter of this story that I wrote down, and it seemed like it needed to happen this way. Also, if you've read any of my other stories, you must know by now that I'm not usually one to go for the happy endings.**


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